JT&an 


T17 


utterfly 
Man 


"They,  too,  were  seen  together  very  often  of  late" 

(page  58) 


£7 


THE 
BUTTERFLY  MAN 

BY  GEORGE  BARR  McCUTCHEON 


"Author  of  "The  Purple  Parasol,"  "Jane  Cable," 
"The  Flyers,"  "The  Alternative,"  Etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  HARRISON  FISHER 


A.  L.  BURT   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Vti 


*2? 


•o* 


Gntents 


II  IN  LOMBARD  AVENUE 

III  THE  FRIENDSHIP 

IV  COMPOSITE  HEROISM 

V  A  WEEK-END 

VI  THE  INCONSIDERATE  WORLD      .     . 

VII  CONTEMPLATING  THE  CHRYSALIS   . 


PAGE 
II 


30 

47 

6+M 
79 


no 


<  *=*? 


II  lustrations 


"  They,  too,  were  seen  together  very  often 

of  late"     .....      (page  58)         Frontispiece 

"  In  a  tete-a-tete  he  had  no  equals  "     .     Facing  page    22 

"  For  a  long  time  they  were  silent  "     .     .     "       "       68 

^M^ 

"  She  was  compelled  to  speak  plainly  and 

without  mercy  "  .......     "       "114 


^-•^Srt^v 


& 

E£?f> 


Butterfly  Man 

vX     «^ 


sir 


CHAPTER  I 

SEDGEWICK   BLYNN 

THE  dinner  was  being  given  by  Mrs.  Cortlandt 
Trend ;    that,  in  itself,  was  sufficient  proof  of 
its   smartness   if  not  entirely  establishing  its 
excellence  along  another  line. 

Mrs.  Trend  was  parsimonious.  She  had  had  the  bad 
luck  to  be  born  in  severe  poverty;  the  silver  dollar  of 
her  childhood  days  was  a  very  portentous  thing;  she 
never  quite  got  over  the  feeling  that  it  was  a  portentous 
thing.  But,  despite  the  fact  that  she  pinched  here  and 
there  and  looked  to  it  that  there  was  no  unnecessary 
waste,  her  " affairs"  were  very  smart.  Mr.  Trend  was 
very  rich  and  their  home  was  in  truth  a  mansion.  It  is 
of  small  consequence  that  Mr.  Trend  went  to  bed  early; 
he  was  never  missed.  He  went  to  bed  early  because  he 
had  to  get  up  early.  His  presence  at  one  of  her  func 
tions  would  have  caused  no  little  surprise  and  specula 
tion  among  her  guests,  —  surprise  to  those  who  knew 
him  personally  or  by  sight,  and  speculation  among  those 
who  did  not. 

"I  saw  that  chap  here  once  last  winter."  is  the  historic 
remark  once  made  by  young  Gately,  who  looked  upon 


[12] 

Trend  for  the  second  time  in  his  life.  "What's  his 
name  ?" 

"Trend,"  replied  some  one  succinctly. 

"Any  relation  to  her?" 

"I  think  so.     He's  her  husband." 

"Lord,  how  he  must  hate  us!"  murmured  Gately, 
speaking  more  truth  than  he  knew. 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  Trend  was  one  of  those  women  who 
never  has  an  extra  bottle  of  wine  opened  unless  she  is 
sure  it  will  be  drunk.  It  was  a  habit  that  came  with  her 
from  the  suburbs,  where  she  was  born  and  bred,  and 
where  they  open  wine  with  prayer  and  finally  drink  it 
as  an  epilogue.  With  all  of  Trend's  millions  and  in 
spite  of  ten  years'  struggle  for  social  leadership,  there 
were  a  few  tricks  she  could  not  forget.  Her  Bridge 
prizes  were  costly  and  lavish,  her  cotillion  favours  beauti 
ful  and  rare,  her  service  elegant  and  faultless,  her 
beauty  and  her  wit  beyond  reproach,  and  yet  —  well, 
the  suburb  had  taught  her  that  it  was  a  sin  to  waste. 
It  was  an  established  fact  —  not  a  confidential  rumour, 
by  any  means  —  that  Mrs.  Trend's  dinners  were  attrac 
tive  but  not  at  all  satisfying.  And  yet  it  was  very  much 
in  order  to  covet  an  invitation  to  her  admirably  con 
ducted  establishment.  Her  entertainments  were  so 
frequent  that  poor  Trend,  who  breakfasted  before  she 
was  awake  and  who  lunched  in  town,  seldom  saw  her 
unless  she  were  of  a  mind  to  come  to  his  room,  where 
he  dined  alone  and  in  the  simple  splendour  of  a  smoking 
jacket.  Not  more  than  three  times  a  year  was  it  neces- 


r 


sary  for  Trend  to  shave  himself  in  the  evening,  for  which 
he  was  devoutly  thankful. 

Three  persons  were  chatting  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
drawing-room  —  two  men  and  a  woman.  Already  it 
was  far  past  the  dinner  hour,  and  these  were  Bridge 
fiends.  Their  hostess,  serene  and  unruffled,  went  by. 

"It's  half-past  eight,  Mrs.  Trend,"  ventured  one  of 
the  men,  with  the  privilege  of  an  old  acquaintance 
who  takes  the  liberty  of  being  annoyed  if  he  feels 
like  it. 

"Isn't  it  shocking?"  she  exclaimed,  pausing.  "But 
the  dinner  won't  be  spoiled,  George.  When  I  invite 
Sedgewick  Blynn  to  dinner  I  invariably  allow  half  an 
hour  for  his  shortcoming.  Eight  means  half  past  to 
him." 

"Why  don't  you  operate  on  a  schedule  that  might 
lead  him  to  infer  that  half-past  seven  is  eight?"  asked 
George  Pennington. 

"You  mean,  ask  him  for  seven  thirty  when  I  want 
him  at  eight  ?  My  dear  man,  he  'd  never  forgive  me," 
she  said  as  she  passed  on. 

"We  might  have  known  it  was  Blynn,"  growled  Stan 
ley,  when  she  was  out  of  hearing.  "He  makes  it  a  busi 
ness  of  being  late  everywhere."  After  a  moment's  re 
flection,  he  went  on:  "It 's  not  a  bad  way,  either,  if  one 
wants  to  keep  constantly  in  the  limelight.  Here  we  are 
kept  waiting  half  an  hour  —  for  whom  ?  There  's  only 
one  name  on  our  lips  —  Sedgewick  Blynn's.  It 's  a 
bully  way  of  advertising." 


[14] 

"Jjje's  very  agreeable  and  amusing,  no  matter  how 
late  he  may  be,"  said  Miss  Carnahan. 

"Oh,  we  '11  grant  you  that.  No  well  regulated  party 
seems  complete  without  him  these  days.  He  does  n't  let 
lost  time  count  against  him.  We  may  revile  him  foi 
being  late  but  we  rejoice  when  he  is  with  us.  And,  to 
save  my  soul,  I  can't  precisely  see  where  his  charm 
comes  in,"  said  Pennington  grudgingly.  Pennington 
needed  a  cigarette. 

"It's  his  everlasting  good  humour,"  said  Stanley, 
"and  a  certain  form  of  modesty  that  baffles  you  at  all 
turns.  *If  you  curse  him,  you  're  sorry  for  it  when  he 
smiles  that  winning  smile  of  his  and  shakes  your  hand 
as  if  he  was  never  so  happy  as  when  greeting  you.  You 
like  him  in  spite  of  yourself —  and  sometimes  you  wonder 
why." 

"I  never  wonder  why,"  protested  the  young  woman,  a 
bud  of  the  season.  "He's  so  nice,  and  he  is  good- 
looking." 

"Rather  stands  us  middle-aged  mummies  against  the 
wall,  I  take  it,  Miss  Carnahan.  You  are  very  unkind. 
Remember  our  age,"  said  Pennington.  "Let  me  see, 
is  n't  he  the  son  of  old  Henry  Blynn,  who  used  to  be 
cashier  at  the  Union  Commercial  ?" 

"Yes.  Henry  died  three  or  four  years  ago.  Sedge- 
wick  lives  out  in  Lombard  Avenue  with  his  mother  and 
his  two  sisters  —  you  remember  the  Blynn  girls,  fifteen 
or  eighteen  years  back  ?  Old  maids  now." 

"Perfectly.    You  see,  Miss  Carnahan,  I  'm  somewhat 


[15] 

of  a  stranger  in  an  old  familiar  land.  I  went  abrcfad  to 
live  ten  years  ago.  Many  things  have  happened  here 
since  then.  One  of  them  is  Sedgewick  Blynn.  He 
was  n't  known  in  my  day.  Now  he  is  the  rage." 

"He  's  asked  everywhere,"  agreed  Miss  Carnahan,  as 
if  nothing  more  was  to  be  desired. 

"As  I  remember  his  father,  Stanley,  the  old  man  was 
—  er  —  something  of  a  nose-grinder.  Always  grubbing 
for  both  ends.  Did  he  leave  much  of  an  estate  ?" 

"The  house  in  Lombard  Avenue,  I  believe,  and 
enough  for  Mrs.  Blynn  and  the  girls  to  get  on  with  in  a 
very  modest  way." 

"This  young  chap  seems  to  have  made  something  of 
himself,  then,  I  take  it.  It  costs  money  to  live  up  to 
these  friends  of  his.  'Gad,  his  dad  was  n't  able  to  go 
in  for  society  in  any  shape  or  form.  One  never  heard 
of  the  Blynns  in  my  day.  Nice  people,  Miss  Carnahan, 
believe  me,  but  —  "  Pennington  hesitated. 

"They  went  to  church  regularly,"  supplied  Stanley. 
"So  did  we  in  those  days.  It  had  something  to  do  with 
fashion,  I  believe.  Every  one  who  went  to  St.  Mark's 
knew  the  Blynn  girls." 

"What  is  Sedgewick's  business?"  asked  Pennington. 

"He  is  a  broker  —  full-fledged  now,  I  believe.  Grad 
uated  not  long  ago  from  Warmley  &  Broad's  offices. 
He  's  gone  in  for  himself  lately.  Offices  in  the  Commer 
cial.  But,  I  '11  leave  it  to  Miss  Carnahan,  his  opera 
tions  seem  to  be  chiefly  in  presents,  not  futures.  Am  I 
not  right?" 


£«•"' 

" 


"If  you  mean  to  be  paradoxicaf,  I  must  confess  I  'm 
horribly  stupid.  I  only  know  that  he  's  very  successful. 
He  told  me  last  night  of  a  deal  he  'd  made  in  copper  — 
or  was  it  brass  ?  It  —  " 

"Brass,  more  than  likely,"  said  Stanley  drily. 

She  did  not  feel  the  sting,  but  smiled  serenely  and 
went  on  :  "I  know  so  little  about  what  you  men  trade  in. 
Is  it  brass  ?  Well,  Mr.  Blynn  was  saying  at  Mrs.  Grant's 
last  night  that  he  'd  pulled  off  a  big  deal  in  something. 
Yesterday  morning  at  the  musicale  he  told  me  he  was 
sure  to  pull  it  off,  and  he  did,  you  see.  He  's  quite 
musical,  you  know." 

"Pulled  it  off  in  the  afternoon,  I  see." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  said  doubtfully.  "He  went 
out  to  Briarly  on  the  one  o'clock  train  to  skate  with  the 
Ralphs.  Dear  me,  how  much  he  does !  He  was  nearly 
an  hour  late  at  Mrs.  Grant's  dinner  last  night.  Did 
you  ever  know  of  any  one  so  popular,  Mr.  Stanley  ? " 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Blynn  was  announced.  There 
was  an  almost  audible  sigh  of  relief;  the  "Bridgers" 
stirred  hopefully,  and  more  than  one  gave  him  an  amiable 
smile  as  he  crossed  to  Mrs.  Trend. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mrs.  Trend,"  he  murmured,  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand.  As  usual,  he  was  somewhat 
breathless,  as  if  haste  had  tried  not  to  make  waste. 
She  smiled  graciously  and  tapped  his  arm  with  her  fan. 
Whereupon  he  was  more  than  ever  contrite;  he  went  so 
far  as  to  smile  rather  pathetically.  "A  representative 
from  Mr.  Morgan's  office  came  in  late  this  afternoon  in 


V5V 


iff 


[I?] 

respect  to  a  very  important  matter  I  am  looking  after 
for  him.  'Pon  my  word,  I  could  n't  break  away  from 
him.  After  all,  you  see,  Mrs.  Trend,  I  'm  rather  —  er 
—  well,  you  might  say,  beholden  to  Mr.  Morgan  for  a 
fair  share  of  my  business  these  days.  I  —  I,  well,  you 
understand,  I  really  could  n't  afford  to  be  rude  to  the 
fellow.  Business  is  business  in  these  awful  days.  You 
will  overlook  it  this  time,  won't  you  ? "  He  looked  2 : 
his  watch  with  an  air  of  abject  humility;  then  a  rars 
glow  of  confidence  came  into  his  face.  "Why,  dear  me, 
I  'm  only  half  an  hour  late,  as  it  is.  It  seemed  hcurs 
to  me." 

"You're  a  nice  boy  to  come  on  such  short  notice, 
so  I  '11  forgive  you,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Blake's  mother  is 
ill,  and  he  telephoned  at  three  that  he  could  not  leave 
her.  You  don't  mind  being  asked  to  fill  in  at  the  last 
moment  ?" 

"Never,  when  it  is  to  fill  in  at  your  house.  From  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  I  hope  you  may  always  be  so  un 
lucky  as  to  have  some  one  drop  out  at  the  very  last 
minute,"  he  said  gallantly. 

"And  afford  you  the  chance  to  drop  in  at  the  very 
last  minute,"  she  said,  with  an  almost  imperceptible 
reproof  in  her  voice.  He  was  quick-witted;  she  was 
sorry  when  he  flushed.  A  wrinkle  of  pain  came  to  the 
corners  of  his  eyes. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  reiterated.  "Pray  don't 
delay  any  longer,  dear  Mrs.  Trend.  I  'm  used  to  being 
hustled  in  to  dinner.  Heaven  knows  why  I  should 


If 

f/*~ri 


always  be  late.  Besides,  you  must  let  me  defend  myself 
to  this  extent :  I  did  n't  get  your  message  until  after 
six.  I  had  been  with  Morgan's  man  all  afternoon. 
Luckily  my  evening  clothes  were  at  the  club,  or  I  should 
have  been  later.  I  did  n't  leave  my  offices  until  nearly 
half-past  seven.  It  was  the  busiest  afternoon  I  've  had 
in  six  months.  Sometimes  I  hate  my  office.  It 's  like 
a  jail." 

"Now,  Sedgewick,"  she  said,  looking  him  calmly  in 
the  eyes,  "that's  all  rubbish.  My  secretary  called  up 
your  offices  four  times  between  three  o'clock  and  six. 
Your  stenographer  said  you  were  out.  I  am  quite  ready 
to  believe  that  you  do  hate  your  office." 

For  a  moment  he  was  speechless,  but  not  fazed.  His 
mind  was  working  like  a  trip-hammer.  The  affable, 
apologetic  smile  crept  into  his  face. 

"I  'm  more  grieved  than  ever,  now  that  I  know  it 
was  you  who  called,"  he  said.  "I  gave  the  girl  instruc 
tions  to  say  to  every  one  who  called  up  that  I  was  out. 
That  man  from  Morgan's  is  an  arbitrary  chap.  He 
monopolises  all  — 

"Oh,  how  satisfactory  you  are  !"  she  cried,  with  some 
thing  like  real  admiration  in  her  voice.  He  was  per 
haps  justified  in  congratulating  himself  upon  his  own 
astuteness.  It  was  not  likely  that  she  would  ever  hear 
that  he  had  played  Bridge  all  the  afternoon  at  Mrs. 
Fielding's.  He  knew  that  Mrs.  Trend  and  Mrs.  Field 
ing  did  not  see  anything  of  each  other  these  days.  Mrs. 
Fielding  somehow  had  dropped  out  of  everything  and 


no  one  cared  to  mention  her  name,  unless  forced  to 
do  so.  Something  about  a  married  man,  "and  all  that 
sort  of  thing." 

Mr.  Blynn,  having  delayed  dinner  quite  three  quar 
ters  of  an  hour,  thereby  sustaining  his  no  uncertain 
position  in  the  limelight,  was  one  of  the  first  in  the 
dining-room  after  all.  It  was  his  way  of  doing  penance, 
so  to  speak.  Besides,  he  was  ever  ready  to  assist  other 
guests  in  finding  their  places.  With  his  dinner  partner 
on  his  arm,  or  tagging  close  behind,  it  was  his  custom  to 
make  the  circuit  of  the  long  table  before  coming  to  his 
own  chair;  from  time  to  time  he  courteously  indicated 
places  to  those  who  may  have  been  perfectly  capable  of 
finding  them  without  aid,  but  who  thought  it  very  nice 
of  him  just  the  same. 

Blynn  was  a  most  obliging  and  thoughtful  chap  — 
and  quite  good  to  look  at.  A  rare  sense  of  modesty 
saved  him  from  the  odium  that  fell  upon  the  less  wily 
and  more  intrusive  fellows  of  his  own  age  and  position 
in  society.  He  never  obtruded  himself  or  his  talents, 
but  was  ever  ready  to  devote  his  entire  time  and  energy 
to  the  enterprises  of  his  hostess  or  his  guests.  Other 
young  men  in  his  set  properly  may  have  been  accused  of 
boisterous  though  good-natured  methods,  but  not  so  with 
Sedgewick  Blynn.  He  waited  until  he  was  asked  to 
supply  the  demand  and  then  gave  more  than  his  share 
with  a  frankness  that  was  pleasingly  free  from  conceit. 

As  a  result,  he  was  always  called  upon  to  do  more 
than  his  share,  in  more  ways  than  one,  and  despite  an 


[20] 

apparent  desire  to  give  others  the  right  of  way,  he  was 
never  out  of  reach  when  wanted.  Be  it  said  to  his 
credit,  so  gentle  was  he  in  his  triumphs  that  little  or  no 
envy  filled  the  souls  of  his  fellow  men.  In  fact,  they 
formed  his  cabinet. 

Blynn  was  young,  but  not  too  young;  handsome,  but 
not  too  handsome.  He  was  twenty-six,  a  slender,  tall, 
fair-haired  fellow  with  keen  blue  eyes  and  a  patrician 
nose.  When  he  smiled  he  showed  his  white  teeth  in  a 
most  amiable  fashion;  when  he  laughed  aloud  at  some 
other  fellow's  joke,  he  invariably  brought  joy  to  the 
heart  of  the  narrator  by  the  fervent  genuineness  of  his 
mirth.  One  could  always  feel  assured  of  Sedgewick 
Blynn's  appreciation,  no  matter  how  hoary  the  joke. 
Graceful,  easy,  gallant,  he  was  ever  a  joy  to  the  box 
party,  the  dinner,  the  dance  and  the  —  debutante.  Small 
wonder,  then,  you  would  have  said,  if  you  could  have 
seen  or  met  him,  that  he  was  so  much  in  demand  by  the 
smartest  people  in  town.  One  likes  to  have  a  Beau 
Brummel  about,  even  though  he  eschews  the  arrogance 
of  the  original  and  confesses,  instead,  to  a  lifelong  state 
of  modesty  and  self-disparagement. 

He  played  Bridge  consistently  and  well  —  and  usu 
ally  won.  In  defence  of  this,  he  lugubriously  confessed 
to  an  unhappy  poverty  that  sharpened  his  card-sense  to 
the  point  of  infallibility.  Moreover,  he  was  agreeably 
willing  to  play  for  a  quarter  of  a  cent  or  a  dollar;  he 
was  never  peevish  about  it,  which  is  more  than  can  be 
said  for  most  gambling  devotees  of  the  game.  Of  course, 

n 


/§* 


j^i 


he  had  to  lose  occasionally.  It  may  be  worth  while,  in 
depicting  his  character,  to  say  that  he  lost  only  when 
playing  for  a  quarter  of  a  cent  or  a  half;  obviously,  he 
felt  it  worth  while  to  concentrate  his  card-sense  on  the 
game  only  when  it  comprehended  something  beyond  the 
ludicrous.  What  is  more,  he  was  perfectly  content  to 
play  when  there  were  no  stakes  at  all.  A  most  .agreeable 
chap,  you  must  admit. 

He  sang,  —  coon  songs  or  ballads,  as  occasion  re 
quired,  —  and  sang  well,  playing  his  own  accompani 
ments  with  vigour  or  tenderness  —  as  occasion  required 
—  so  that  all  others  might  desert  him  if  they  chose  —  a 
circumstance  which  never  happened.  Even  the  oldest 
grey-head  hung  about  to  join  in  the  merry  chorus  when 
he  came  to  it.  One  could  not  help  it.  And,  greater 
than  all  this,  he  knew  when  to  stop  singing  and  playing. 
He  left  them  wanting  more,  not  calling  him  a  bore  — 
which  is  a  truth  as  well  as  a  rhyme. 

As  a  story  teller  he  had  few  equals.  In  a  tete-a-tete 
he  had  no  equals  —  a  very  broad  assertion,  but,  at 
present,  undisputed.  Proud  the  unfledged  but  well-de 
veloped  bud  who  had  him  all  to  herself,  and  most  gal 
lant  he  in  spite  of  all  her  first-bloom  innocuousness. 
He  could  make  love  to  her  so  deliciously  and  so  inoffen-j 
sively  that  no  mother  could  wish  for  more  —  or  less,  for 
that  matter.  Old  ladies  adored  him,  and  the  middle- 
aged  ones  (God  knows  why  there  are  so  few  of  them  — 
but,  then,  God  is  good !)  cherished  him  as  if  he  were  a 
thing  that  might  have  been  forbidden. 


[22] 

No  woman  was  so  old  or  so  doddering  that  her  con 
versation  failed  to  hold  his  most  interested  and  undi 
vided  attention ;  the  older  she  got  the  more  tenacious  the 
hold.  It  is  not  strange  that  they  talked  of  him  inces 
santly,  telling  each  other  how  much  he  was  like  those 
dear  gallants  of  the  day  when  they  were  young  —  all 
of  which  became  an  asset  in  his  fair  stock  of  aspirations. 

He  gossiped  delightfully  and  never  promiscuously.  He 
knew  all  the  scandal,  but  he  was  wise  enough  and  strong 
enough  to  whisper  it  into  one  ear  at  a  time.  Every 
body  said  he  was  delightful,  which  was  the  only  gossip 
that  he  cared  to  have  go  farther. 

He  could  borrow  money  of  any  man  in  his  club,  and 
that  is  saying  a  great  deal,  for  him  and  for  the  club. 
One  cannot  withhold  this  supplemental  word  of  praise 
for  the  club.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  quite  true  that  he  was 
prompt  or  even  prone  to  repay  the  loans  thus  established; 
he  was  of  the  earth  and  not  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

At  Mrs.  Trend's  dinner  he  sat  between  Miss  Carnahan, 
whom  he  had  taken  out,  and  Mrs.  Rounseville,  the  coal 
baron's  wife.  Mrs.  Rounseville  was  always  distressed 
by  the  servant  question.  It  was  not  that  she  could  not 
keep  servants  after  she  got  them,  but  that  they  were 
forever  eating  her  out  of  house  and  home.  In  lamenting 
this  extraordinary  condition  of  affairs,  she  was  afforded 
the  pleasant  sadness  of  announcing  the  number  of 
servants  she  kept  —  and  just  what  their  duties  were. 

"We  have  fourteen  in  that  wretched  apartment  of 
ours,  Miss  Carnahan,"  she  almost  wailed  across  Mr. 


p. 


Copyright,  1910,  Doik     Mead  &  Co. 


'In  a  tete-a-tete  he  had  no  equals" 


£31 


Blynn's  front.  (There  were  seventeen  rooms  in  the 
apartment,  besides  the  extra  servants'  quarters  near  the 
roof.)  Miss  Carnahan  involuntarily  tried  to  recall  the 
number  of  servants  in  her  father's  immense  house  on 
the  Boulevard.  Colonel  Carnahan  was  fabulously  rich. 
Bessie  could  not  even  remember  how  many  footmen  they 
had.  Sedgewick  Blynn  was  properly  impressed,  al 
though  he  had  heard  all  about  the  Rounseville  servants 
half  a  dozen  times  at  least.  It  seems  that  the  good  coal 
baroness  included  the  janitor,  the  man  who  shovelled 
snow  by  the  job,  the  window  washer  and  one  or  two 
other  co-operative  menials  in  her  private  menage.  Mrs. 
Rounseville  was  a  snob. 

"Fourteen?    Dear  me!"  he  said  politely. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Blynn,  my  horror  of  thirteen 
actually  compels  us  to  pay  for  an  extra  and  absolutely 
unnecessary  maid  ?  Now,  don't  laugh  at  me !  I  can't 
help  it.  Mr.  Rounseville  says  I  am  foolish,  but  —  well, 
I  just  could  n't  bear  the  thought  of  having  thirteen  serv 
ants.  Twelve  would  not  be  sufficient,  you  see,  and 
fourteen  is  one  too  many.  But  I  just  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  telling  people  that  I  had  thirteen.  Think 
of  it!  Thirteen!" 

"You  could  get  around  the  hoodoo,  Mrs.  Rounseville, 
by  saying  you  keep  between  twelve  and  fourteen,"  rec 
ommended  he  blandly.  "Why  say  thirteen?" 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  cried.  Miss  Carnahan 
beamed  upon  him.  No  wonder  people  said  that  he  was 
bright!  Mrs.  Rounseville  bored  her  excessively;  she 


3WS1^^ 

cc5     si,///    tcb    m<^ 


[24] 

could  not  help  admiring  the  way  in  which  Blynn  sub 
mitted  to  the  long-winded  and  rather  pathetic  details 
attending  the  hiring  of  a  new  cook  —  who,  it  seems, 
was  to  prove  a  treasure.  "You  must  come  in  to-morrow 
night  for  dinner,  Mr.  Blynn,  and  get  the  actual  proof  of 
what  I  say."  Mr.  Blynn  said  it  would  give  him  great 
pleasure  to  get  out  of  a  stupid  engagement  at  the 
club.  He  would  come  with  joy  and  gladness.  For 
that  matter,  he  'd  be  delighted  to  come  if  she  had  no 
cook  at  all ! 

Mrs.  Rounseville  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  telling 
people  how  nice  he  was,  even  though  she  could  n't  quite 
place  his  family. 

i  J 

Before  the  evening  was  over,  Sedgewick  Blynn  had 
graciously  booked  four  dinner  engagements,  a  theatre 
party,  a  Sunday  night  supper,  three  Bridges,  and  any 
number  of  afternoon  visits  into  serene  dove-cotes  — 
many  of  them  as  far  ahead  as  a  month.  From  which  it 
may  be  gathered  that  he  was  very  much  in  demand 
and  very  hard  to  attain  on  short  notice.  Inasmuch  as 
he  was  required  to  devote  considerable  time  to  his  duties 
as  floor-manager  of  the  next  Charity  Ball,  as  secretary  of 
the  Orphans'  Home  bazaar,  as  leader  of  the  Assemblies' 
cotillions,  as  chairman  of  the  Winter  Club  sports  com 
mittee,  as  stage-manager  of  the  Amateur  Dramatic  Club 
and  to  other  social  jobs,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he 
had  to  think  carefully  before  accepting  intermediate  in 
vitations;  or,  for  that  matter,  before  arranging  purely 
business  engagements. 


m 


^3 


£w  JO 

4  v 


1F7 


[25] 

He  was  a  wise  young  owl  in  that  he  spent  none  of  his 
time  in  drinking  bouts.  His  habits  were  exemplary. 

After  dinner,  and  while  the  players  were  seeking  their 
tables,  he  found  his  opportunity  to  carry  Bessie  Carna- 
han  off  to  a  secluded  corner  for  the  brief  though  ex 
pected  "confidential"  that,  of  late,  they  were  so  prone 
to  covet. 

They  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  grand  staircase,  their 
voices  low,  their  heads  quite  close  together.  For  five 
minutes  their  conversation,  too  inane  to  repeat,  savoured 
of  the  vapid  exchanges  one  has  a  right  to  expect  from 
just  such  exaltees.  His  cool,  impelling  blue  eyes  never 
left  her  flushed  face.  Every  time  she  glanced  at  his 
face,  his  teeth  were  showing  in  his  most  eager  smile. 
She  was  nineteen,  she  was  shy,  and  she  was  not  yet  past 
the  stage  when  a  man's  look  serves  to  perturb.  Miss 
Carnahan,  very  pretty  and  very  desirable,  was  just  now 
the  apple  of  Blynn's  eye.  Her  father  had  millions,  with 
a  great  city  house,  a  home  in  the  mountains  and  one  in 
rural  England.  Besides,  she  had  three  automobiles  for 
her  very  own.  Blynn,  of  late,  rode  a  great  deal  in  one 
or  another  of  them.  He  never  failed  to  contribute  the 
remark  that  her  car  was  the  best  on  the  market;  and 
he  could  tell  you  all  about  the  cylinders. 

"Then  you  will  tell  Gately  that  you  have  a  headache 
and  can't  see  him  to-morrow  afternoon?"  he  said,  con 
cluding  a  mild  but  insistent  appeal  which  was  in  reality 
an  argument. 

"Of  course,    if  you    like,"    she    murmured,    almost 


Frl3>,  $8 


fa 


[26] 

frightened  by  the  thought  of  stealing  such  happiness. 
It  would  be  lying,  after  all,  she  reflected,  and  she  was 
still  the  younger  sister  of  older  liars.  "He  will  be  fu 
rious." 

"But  you  'd  rather  have  me  around,  would  n't  you  ?" 
he  insisted.  "I  want  to  see  you  to-morrow.  I  've  got 
something  to  tell  you  —  important." 

"Can't  you  tell  me  now?"  she  cried  —  and  then 
wondered  if  he  would. 

"I  can't,  because  it  all  depends  on  to-night,"  he  said 
with  the  mysterious  seriousness  that  makes  all  young 
girls  regret  that  their  brains  are  too  immature  to  grasp 
the  sage  subtleness  of  the  well-rounded  man  of  the 
world. 

"Oh,  please  tell  me,"  she  pleaded.  "You  know  I  '11 
not  sleep  a  wink  if  you  don't." 

"That's  just  what  I'm  after,"  he  said  softly.  "I 
want  to  be  the  cause  of  keeping  you  awake.  I  want 
you  to  think  of  me  all  night  long.  I  want  —  " 

"What  a  hag  I  'd  be  in  the  morning,"  she  cried  with 
a  pretty  grimace. 

"Not  in  a  million  years,"  he  protested  in  the  language 
dearest  to  a  heart  no  older  than  hers.  His  fingers  touched 
hers  as  they  lay  on  the  arm  of  the  big  chair.  Emboldened, 
he  clasped  her  little  hand  gently,  insinuating  his  courage 
into  her  quivering  nerves. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  quickly  and  a  startled  look 
came  into  her  young  dark  eyes.  The  gentle  attack  had 
come  too  soon;  the  affair  had  not  grown  to  such  pro 


[27] 

portions.  Through  her  simple,  untried  brain  danced  the 
confessions  of  other  girls  who  had  said  that  he  squeezed 
their  fingers  so  deliciously  when  dancing.  And,  then, 
like  a  flash,  there  came  to  her  the  memory  of  a  story  in 
which  a  young  and  fashionable  married  woman  was  in 
volved.  She  remembered  sharply  that  there  had  been 
gossip  —  that  he  owed  his  advent  into  the  smart  world 
to  the  influence  of  this  clever  matron,  who  had  vouched 
for  him,  paraded  him,  flirted  flagrantly  with  him,  and 
then  had  dropped  out  of  the  respectable  set  as  a  comet 
disappears  into  space.  Somehow  this  tender  girl,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  instinctively  felt  the  caution  of  her 
sex  creeping  into  existence;  she  was  capable  of  reflec 
tion.  This  was  the  moment  which  comes  to  every  girl  — 
the  moment  when  she  begins  to  analyse  the  motives  of 
the  opposite  sex  —  for  it  is  always  opposite. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  murmured  abjectly.  She  imagined 
that  he  turned  very  pale.  Her  heart  fluttered,  but  some 
thing  cold  raced  down  to  her  finger-tips.  All  she  could 
do  was  to  smile,  with  a  sharp,  sob-like  catch  in  her  breath. 
She  was  learning  a  new  lesson  in  life. 

At  that  moment  some  one  came  into  the  hall  and  in 
exasperated  tones  called  out  to  Blynn  to  hurry  up:  he 
was  delaying  the  game. 

Blynn  arose  instantly.  "I  '11  see  you  to-morrow  at 
four  ? "  he  said,  his  eyes  bent  closely  upon  hers.  She 
nodded  and  smiled. 

"But  won't  it  interfere  with  your  business?"  she 
asked  archly.  Sedgewick  Blynn  gallantly  waved  his 


m 


hand  in  deprecation.  He  did  not  consider  it  worth 
while  to  confess  that  she  was  his  business.  She  was 
an  only  child  and  the  best  investment  in  the  city. 

"Oh,  by  Jove,"  he  said,  abruptly  stopping,  an  ex 
pression  of  genuine  dismay  in  his  face.  A  subtle  shadow 
crept  into  his  eyes.  "I  —  I  almost  forgot  to  telephone 
to  my  mother." 

"Your  mother?" 

"Yes,  I  —  usually  call  up  about  her  bedtime,  don't 
you  know.  She  likes  to  have  me  say  good-night  when 
I  can.  Will  you—  "  with  a  pleading  smile  —  "excuse 
me  while  I  run  into  the  telephone  room  and  call  her 
up  ?  Tell  'em  in  there  that  I  '11  not  be  a  minute." 

He  entered  the  telephone  room  off  the  hall,  and  she 
crossed  to  the  card  rooms.  Pennington  appeared  in  the 
door. 

"Where's  Blynn  ?    We're  waiting,  Miss  Carnahan." 

"He  has  just  gone  in  to  telephone  to  his  mother,"  she 
said,  her  face  flushed,  her  eyes  bright. 

"The  dick  —  beg  pardon  !" 

"He  usually  telephones  good-night  to  her,"  she  said, 
with  an  unconscious  glow  of  pride. 

Pennington's  lean,  grey  face  wore  a  puzzled  look  for  an 
instant.  Then  a  warm  flush  suffused  it.  A  new  light  came 
into  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  toward  the  telephone  room. 

"I  don't  mind  saying,  Miss  Carnahan,  that  my  re 
spect  for  your  young  blade  has  doubled  —  yes,  trebled 
in  the  last  minute.  To  say  good-night  to  his  mother  1 
By  Jove,  his  heart 's  all  right ! " 


8k 

em 


£2} 


[29] 

Inside  the  telephone  room,  in  subdued  tones,  Sedge- 
wick  Blynn  was  saying: 

"Hello,  mother!  That  you  ?  I  called  the  house  three 
times  before  half-past  seven.  Confound  this  telephone 
service,  anyway.  I  tried  my  best  to  get  you.  I  'm 
awfully  sorry  to  have  disappointed  you  and  the  girls. 
.  .  .  The  tickets  ?  I  —  I  've  got  'em  in  my  pocket. 
If  I  'd  had  any  sense  I  could  have  sent  'em  out  to  you 
by  messenger.  ...  It 's  too  bad,  mother.  You  see,  I 
was  n't  able  to  shake  that  fellow  from  Morgan's  until 
ten  minutes  ago.  It  was  terribly  important,  you  know. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I  think  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  me.  .  .  . 
Oh,  that 's  too  bad !  I  'm  sorry  you  and  the  girls  sat 
around  there  with  your  things  on,  waiting  for  me.  We  '11 
try  it  again  next  week.  I  '11  get  seats  for  the  same  play. 
.  .  .  You  kept  your  hats  on  till  half-past  nine  ?  By 
George,  it 's  a  rotten  shame !  I  'm  going  to  complain 
to-morrow  to  the  manager  of  this  beastly  telephone 
company.  It 's  an  outrage.  What  ?  .  .  .  Oh  1  Good 
night  1" 


M 


*£> 


w  , 


CHAPTER  II 


IN   LOMBARD   AVENUE 

THE  Blynn  establishment  in  Lombard  Avenue 
was  a  very  modest  one.  The  house  was  an 
old  one  but  comfortable.  Mrs.  Blynn  had 
about  three  thousand  a  year;  on  this  she  and  her  daugh 
ters  could  have  lived  comfortably,  despite  the  taxes,  had 
it  not  been  necessary  to  devote  no  little  share  of  their 
income  to  the  business  necessities  of  the  head  of  the 
family  —  the  son  and  brother,  who  was  now  operating 
for  himself.  In  him  the  sun  rose  and  set:  he  was,  so 
to  speak,  the  family  sun.  The  widow,  a  dear  old  lady, 
with  the  foresight  and  strength  to  oppose  his  one-time 
plan  to  mortgage  the  house  so  that  he  could  obtain  a 
controlling  interest  in  a  new  and  wonderful  copper 
mine  that  bade  fair  to  turn  into  the  proverbial  "gold 
mine"  in  the  end,  believed  in  him  as  she  had  believed 
in  her  husband  when  their  days  were  young  and  their 
struggles  tense.  She  expected  to  see  this  son  of  hers  high 
in  the  financial  world  before  her  long  day's  work  was 
done. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  her  daughters  now  and  again 
had  felt  some  little  misgiving  concerning  Sedgewick  and 


secretly  expressed  their  vague  doubts,  but,  if  such  were 
the  case,  up  to  this  time  they  had  kept  their  fears  to 
themselves.  Sisters,  as  a  rule,  do  not  see  a  man  through 
eyes  so  kindly  and  so  obscured  as  those  which  lie  in  a 
mother's  head.  They  were  not  so  sure  of  Sedgewick  ! 
Anna  was  forty-three  and  Hettie  thirty-nine.  They  were 
vastly  older,  it  may  be  seen,  than  the  idol  of  the  home  in 
Lombard  Avenue;  they  were  born  in  the  days  of  their 
father's  hardest  fight  for  success,  not  when  he  was  ready 
to  say  that  he  was  safe  against  the  possibility  of  abso 
lute  failure.  Sedgewick  was  the  son  of  his  easy,  opti 
mistic  days.  It  is  not  unnatural,  then,  that  they  should 
have  a  different  outlook  upon  the  world.  They  loved 
Sedgewick  —  idolised  him,  in  fact  —  but  they  —  well, 
they  often  wondered. 

There  were  two  servants  in  the  house,  old  and  faith 
ful  servitors:  the  cook  who  was  strong  enough  and 
willing  enough  to  take  care  of  the  furnace,  and  the  house 
maid,  who  did  the  washing  and  ironing  on  Mondays 
and  Tuesdays  and  made  no  complaint  about  serving 
breakfast  to  Sedgewick,  no  matter  how  late  the  hour,  in 
bed  or  out  of  it.  On  wash  days  and  ironing  days,  the 
Blynn  sisters  put  aside  their  church  sewing  and  reading 
and  did  the  up-stairs  work  of  the  housemaid. 

That  the  women  of  the  family  were  proud  of  and 
glorified  by  Sedgewick's  social  elevation  was  no  matter 
for  speculation.  They  made  no  doubt  that  he  was  de 
serving  of  the  position  he  had  achieved  in  the  almost 
impregnable  smart  set;  they  were  content  to  skimp  and 


40^5 


3 


sp^e*_ 


& 


3§H 


4 


vs 


[32] 

sacrifice  in  order  that  he  might  hold  his  own  for  the 
glory  of  the  family.  They  could  imagine  no  greater 
recompense  than  the  happiness  which  should  be  theirs 
when  he  at  last  led  to  the  altar  one  of  those  fair  young 
creatures  of  purple  and  fine  linen,  thereby  ensconcing 
himself  serenely  for  all  time  among  the  things  that  are 
gilded. 

The  two  sisters,  at  times,  may  have  dwelt  luxuri 
ously  in  dreams  of  marriage  for  themselves,  but  time 
and  Sedgewick  had  made  these  dreams  a  waste  of 
deserted  hopes.  There  was,  alas,  nothing  left  for  them 
but  church  work  and  devotion  to  the  unclad  heathen. 
Which  seems  all  the  more  a  pity  when  one  realises  that 
they  were  not  uncomely,  nor  were  they  soured  by  pro 
tracted  virginity. 

The  family  saw  but  little  of  Sedgewick  in  these  tri 
umphal  days.  He  was  so  seldom  at  home  for  dinner 
that  a  plate  was  never  laid  for  him;  he  had  his  break 
fasts  there,  and  it  was  then  that  these  eager  worshippers 
listened  to  his  tales  of  the  gilded  sea  through  which  he 
floated.  It  goes  without  saying  that  they  were  properly 
impressed,  despite  his  manly  declaration  that  he  was 
tired  of  it  all  and  longed  for  quiet  evenings  at  home. 
When,  on  occasion,  he  was  at  home  for  an  evening,  the 
celebration  was  somewhat  tempered  by  the  distressing 
fear  that  he  had  been  slighted  in  not  receiving  an  invi 
tation  to  spend  the  time  elsewhere. 

Once  —  how  well  remembered  !  —  he  deliberately  de 
clined  at  least  half  a  dozen  invitations  for  dinner  and  the 


V2JM 


[33] 

theatre,  steadfastly  assuring  his  mother  and  sisters  that 
he  was  determined  to  spend  the  evening  with  them. 
They  wculd  play  a  few  rubbers  at  Bridge  and  let  society 
go  hang !  It  was  on  this  eventful  occasion  that  his 
mother  volunteered  to  guarantee  the  payment  of  certain 
office  and  club  expenses  amounting  to  something  like 
two  thousand  dollars.  It  required  an  hour  of  earnest 
insistence  on  the  part  of  all  of  them  before  he  would 
consent  to  accept  the  advancement !  He  merely  had 
mentioned  the  indebtedness  in  explanation  of  a  steady 
headache  which  had  been  bothering  him  of  late.  Not 
for  the  world  .... 

On  the  evening  of  Mrs.  Trend's  dinner  party,  Mrs. 
Blynn  and  her  daughters,  considerably  excited  by  the 
prospect  of  a  treat  at  the  theatre,  dressed  early  and  in 
their  best.  They  waited  dinner  for  Sedgewick  until 
after  seven,  and  then,  somewhat  dismayed,  sat  down  to 
it  without  him. 

"It's  the  abominable  street  car  service,"  explained 
Miss  Anna,  with  more  irritation  in  her  voice  than  was 
usual.  "The  cars  never  run  when  you  want  them  to." 

"We'll  be  late  and  I  always  like  to  be  there  when  the 
curtain  goes  up,"  lamented  Miss  Hettie.  "Why  could  n't 
he  have  started  home  earlier  ?  He  is  n't  with  us  so  often 
that  he  might  not  afford  to  break  away  from  his  office 
early  once  in  a  while." 

"Now,  Hettie,  don't  find  fault  with  Sedgewick," 
interposed  the  mother  quietly.  "He's  been  delayed  on 
the  way  out.  as  Anna  says.  Poor  boy,  I  fancy  he's 


[34] 

. 

stamping  his  feet  in  despair  in  some  blocked  street  car 
along  the  line." 

"He  said  he'd  be  here  by  six,"  mumbled  the  rebellious 
Miss  Hettie.  Being  the  younger  of  the  two  sisters,  she 
naturally  observed  less  restraint  in  commenting  upon 
the  shortcomings  of  the  next  in  order  of  birth.  "You 
know,  Anna,  he  could  step  into  a  drugstore  and  telephone) 
to  us  if  the  blockade  is  a  serious  one." 

"He'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,  never  fear,"  said 
Mrs.  Blynn  staunchly.  "Katie,  will  you  tell  Bridget  to 
keep  something  warm  for  Mr.  Sedgewick  r  He'll  be  in 
a  great  hurry  when  he  comes  in.  Anna,  perhaps  you'd 
better  get  out  his  evening  clothes  and  — 

"Mother,  he  dresses  at  the  club  every  night  of  his 
life,"  interrupted  Miss  Hettie.  "His  clothes  are  there, 
you  forget." 

"So  they  are,  so  they  are.  Poor  boy,  how  busy  they 
must  keep  one  in  society." 

Miss  Hettie's  black  eyes  sent  a  sharp,  inquiring  glance 
at  Miss  Anna's  serene,  sweet  face,  and  detected  there  a 
momentary  shade  of  annoyance.  Miss  Anna's  hair  was 
grey  at  the  temples,  and  dark,  luminous  eyes  peered 
through  glasses  that  were  not  youthful.  The  younger 
sister  was  dark  and  sharp  featured,  without  a  grey  thread 
in  her  hair.  Both  were  still  good-looking  women,  fading] 
slowly  because  their  lives  had  been  gently  spent. 

"  His  shirts  and  collars  are  —  are  delivered  at  the 
club  by  the  laundry,"  added  Mrs.  Blynn  reflectively. 
"Dear  me,  how  little  we  do  see  of  him." 


[35] 

"We  don't  see  even  his  shirts  and  collars,"  remarked 
Miss  Hettie,  with  a  dry  smile. 

"We  darn  his  socks,"  protested  Miss  Anna  loyally, 
affecting  a  gay  little  laugh. 

"And  sew  on  his  buttons,"  added  her  sister. 

"My  dears,  it  does  n't  take  much  of  our  time,  and  we 
ought  to  be  happy  in  doing  it." 

"We  are  happy,"  cried  both  sisters  promptly. 

Nothing  more  was  said  until  the  coffee  was  served, 
each  apparently  giving  herself  over  to  her  own  thoughts 
and  impressions.  A  line  between  Miss  Anna's  gentle 
eyes  deepened  perceptibly,  while  the  flush  in  Miss 
Hettie's  cheeks  grew  darker  as  if  stirred  from  beneath  by 

some  suppressed  force. 
1 

"It's  nearly  eight,"  she  mentioned. 

"I  —  I  shall  go  up-stairs  and  put  on  my  hat,"  said 
their  mother,  rising  slowly.  "We  must  not  keep  him 
waiting." 

The  sisters  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  as  she  moved 

toward  the  door. 

, 

"If  he  only  had  sent  the  tickets  out  to  us,  we  might 
have  joined  him  at  the  theatre,"  Miss  Hettie  could  not 
resist  saying. 

"Mother,  you  must  not  forget  to  bring  down  your 
heavy  muffler,"  cautioned  Miss  Anna.  "Remember 
you  have  a  bad  cold  starting  in.  Really,  I'd  be  rather 
pleased  if  we  were  not  to  go  out  to-night,  after  all.  Your 
fold  distresses  me." 

"It's  nothing.    And  I  would  n't  disappoint  Sedgewick 


<*•      .,.,.,  —  >kl  ft    dg-Na-^AJg   j.      tH 

[36] 

for  the  world.  He  has  counted  on  this  evening  for  a 
week  or  more." 

"I'll  be  up-stairs  in  a  minute  to  help  you  with  your 
veil,  mother,"  said  Miss  Hettie 

"Don't  be  late,  dears.     Don't  keep  him  waiting." 

They  could  not  see  the  tears  of  pain  that  came  into* 
her  eyes  as  she  slowly  mounted  the  stairs.  She  had  just" 
come  to  realize  that  he  had  forgotten  her  ! 

The  sisters  sat  for  many  minutes,  stirring  their  coffee 
without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  each  other.  Neither 
seemed  to  be  willing  to  be  the  first  to  utter  the  convic 
tions  that  had  grown  firm  in  their  minds. 

"He's  forgotten  it,  Hettie,"  said  Anna  at  last,  without 

i     i  • 
looking  up. 

"I  don't  mind  so  much  for  myself,"  said  the  other 
wearily.  "It's  mother." 

"It  isn't  possible  that  he  could  have  met  with  an 
accident  ?  "  volunteered  the  elder,  almost  hopefully. 

"It's  more  than  possible  that  he  has  accidentally  met 
some  one  who  has  asked  him  to  do  something  else." 

"Mother  has  been  so  delighted  over  the  prospect  o( 
seeing  Miss  Barrymore,"  said  Miss  Anna.  After  a 
moment's  indecision  she  blazed  forth,  a  wide  rift  in  her 
usual  placidity:  "He  —  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself!  After  all  she  does  for  him,  too!  To  forget 
her!  Hettie,  it's  cruel  —  it's  heartless!  I  don't  care 
about  seeing  the  play  —  I  can  get  on  without  it.  Heaven 
knows  we're  not  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  theatre,  so 
;t  does  n't  hurt  so  much  in  that  way.  But  we  could  have 

~ 


\j«A/   <t 


[37] 

had  a  jolly  evening,  the  four  of  us,  and  mother  had 
counted  on  it  so  much  —  the  play  and  the  little  supper 
afterward.  Hettie,  do  you  know  that  she  drew  some 
money  from  the  bank  yesterday  so  that  Sedge  need  n't 
be  embarrassed  about  ordering  a  good  supper  —  he's 
always  short,  you  know.  I  —  I  love  Sedgewick,  but  — 
but  why  can't  he  be  a  little  different  toward  mother  ?  He 
thinks  of  nothing  but  his  society  friends  —  society, 
society,  society!" 

"The  cemetery  of  unselfishness,"  said  Miss  Hettie, 
who  was  epigrammatic.  "It's  a  whirlpool  and  he's 
been  dragged  into  it  —  he's  lost  to  us,  Anna.  He's  even 
lost  to  mother.  He  never  thinks  of  us  —  he  never  thinks 
of  her.  There  are  days  and  days  when  we  don't  see  him 
nor  even  hear  from  him  on  the  'phone.  He  has  time  to 
go  to  the  houses  of  a  hundred  other  people,  but  not  time 
to  come  to  his  own.  I  don't  like  to  say  it,  Anna,  but 
he  never  gives  us  a  spare  hour  of  his  time  unless  he's 
hard  up  and  wants  to  wheedle  something  out  of  mother. 
If  he's  got  such  a  wonderful  business,  why  doesn't  he 
give  something  to  her  instead  of  taking  it  away  from 
her?" 

"Hettie !  You  know  we  are  all  glad  to  help  him  along 
in  his  business.  He's  just  starting  out  and  — 

"I  know  it's  mean  of  me  to  say  it,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
I  'm  mad  and  I  'm  going  to  say  what  I  feel.  It  is  n't 
business  that  keeps  him  away  from  mother  twenty-nine 
nights  in  the  month  and  it  is  n't  business  that  runs  up  his 
club,  livery,  and  restaurant  bills  until  he  can't  pay  them. 


V 


s^-'i. 

M 

*^^ 


4 


li 


fe 


[38] 

Anna,  don't  you  know  that  we  have  n't  had  a  decent  new 
dress,  either  of  us,  in  two  years  ?  How  many  suits  of 
clothes  —  silk  underwear,  shirts,  high  hats,  overcoats, 
and  all  that,  has  he  had  in  —  well,  in  the  last  six  months  ? 
And  from  whom  does  he  borrow  the  money  to  pay  for 
them  ?  Thank  heaven,  we  don't  need  a  new  dress  every 
six  months,  but  I'd  like  to  feel  that  I  could  ask  for  it 
without  robbing  mother.  It  may  be  true  that  we  are  — 
are  pensioners,  in  plain  words  —  " 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  Hettie!" 

"Pensioners,  that's  just  it.  We  are  women  and  we 
did  n't  marry.  We  are  drags.  We  may  toil  and  we 
may  spin  after  a  fashion,  but  we  have  failed  to  do  the 
thing  which  was  expected  of  us.  We  still  subsist  from 
mother's  hand.  She  does  not  resent  it,  but  I'll  bet  any 
thing  that  Sedgewick  feels  that  we  are  an  everlasting 
drain  on  poor  mother's  little  store.  He  can't  see  why 
we've  never  married.  He  can't  see  why  father  provided 
for  us  as  well  as  for  him.  We  should  have  had  husbands 
to  make  livings  for  us.  That's  our  crime  against  the  law 
and  order  of  things.  He  feels,  and  I  know  it,  that  we  are 
dreadful  burdens  to  mother,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we 
cheerfully  give  to  him  from  our  own  share  of  what  father 
left  to  all  of  us  in  common." 

"He  can't  think  that  of  us,"  groaned  Miss  Anna. 

"Certainly  he  can.     W7hy  not  ?     We're  old  maids  - 
and,  heaven  be  praised,  we're  healthy.     We'll  live  a 
long  time.     Maybe  he  thinks  we'll  expect  him  to  take 
care  of  us  in  our  old  age." 


fv-f/^i  i^<7  rn 

d^m2 


10* 

p") 


*?     CD 


[391 

"You  should  n't  say  such  things,  Hettie." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  n't,  dear,"  said  Miss  Hettie,  after 
a  moment  of  reflection.  "He  is  a  dear  boy  and  I  love 
him.  We  ought  to  be  proud  of  him  —  of  his  position  — 
of  his  prospects.  Yes,  he  will  succeed;  I  am  a  mean  cat 
to  say  the  things  I  have  said.  I'm  sorry."  There  was 
another  long  silence  between  the  distressed  sisters.  Then 
Miss  Hettie  spoke  up  decisively.  "But  he  won't  come 
to-night.  He  has  forgotten  us.  And  mother  is  up-stairs 
putting  on  her  things  to  go  out.  It's  ten  minutes  past 
eight.  Have  you  an  idea  that  he  will  come  ?  No!" 

"He  could  have  telephoned,"  murmured  Miss  Anna  in 
despair.  "He  might  have  done  that." 

"He  would  have  done  it  if —  if  he  had  not  forgotten  it 
altogether." 

"He  telephoned  out  to  her  yesterday.  I  heard  her 
talking  to  him.  Afterwards  she  told  me  that  he  had  an 
opportunity  to  sell  four  of  those  Consolidated  Gas  bonds 
at  a  fine  profit.  She's  talking  of  getting  them  out  of  the 
vault  next  week." 

"I  wonder  if  it's  best  to  sell  any  of  those  bonds," 
mused  Miss  Hettie,  who  had  a  fair  sense  of  business. 

"She's  going  to  talk  it  over  with  Mr.  Foote  at  the 
bank.  Do  you  know,  Hettie,  I  half  suspect  she  does  n't 
really  trust  to  Sedge's  judgment." 

"He  sold  the  Pullman  stock,  you  remember,"  said 
Miss  Hettie  meaningly. 

"Well,  he  explained  that,"  protested  Miss  Anna,  from 
which  it  may  be  gathered  that  the  transfer  was  ill- 


©1 

ti&J 


[40] 

advised.     "It  might  have  gone  lower  in  the  slump  or 

whatever  you  call  it." 

* 

"But  it  was  costing  us  nothing  to  hold  it,  Mr.  Foote 
said." 

"Girls!"  called  their  mother  from  the  head  of  the 
stairs.  The  sisters  started  guiltily 

"Yes,  mother,"  called  out  Miss  Hettie.    "Coming." 

"Get  your  things  on.  He'll  be  in  a  great  hurry.  We'll 
miss  some  of  the  play,  as  it  is." 

They  looked  at  each  other  pityingly  as  they  arose  and 
started  to  obey  the  summons. 

"Poor  mother,"  murmured  Miss  Anna. 

"Her  cold  is  worse,"  said  her  sister.  ,  "She's  been 
coughing  a  great  deal  and  she  has  those  pains  in  her 
back  and  chest.  I  'm  —  I  'm  rather  glad  we're  not  going 

6  66 

out,  Anna." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Miss  Anna  bravely.  "But  we'll  have 
to  put  on  our  hats." 

"Where  are  the  opera  glasses,  Hettie,"  asked  Mrs. 
Blynn,  as  they  started  up  the  stairs. 

"Sedgewick  has  them,  mother,"  answered  her  daugh 
ter.  "Or,  at  least,  he  left  them  at  Mrs.  DeMille's  some 
time  ago.  He  said  he  was  to  get  them  the  next  time  he 
went  there." 

"That  was  six  months  ago,"  murmured  Miss  Anna, 
quite  inaudibly.  Her  sister  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  and 
shook  her  head. 

"Well,  hurry  down,  girls.     We  must  not  keep  him 

. 
waiting.     I've  been  watching  the  street  cars  go  by  on 


' 


_—  . 

tt 


: 


[41] 

the  Craven  street  line.  They  seem  to  be  running  all 
right  now." 

"Yes,  mother." 

In  sober,  almost  unbroken  silence  the  three  of  them 
came  down  and  sat  in  the  warm  little  parlor,  consciously 

intent  upon  every  sound  that  came  from  the  outside. 

r  J 

They  listened  eagerly  for  the  quick  footsteps  of  the 
youth  for  whom  they  waited;  they  longed  for  the  dash 
up  the  chill  front  steps  and  the  bursting  in  upon  them 
of  the  belated  loved  one,  with  his  instant  and  vigorous 
explanation  of  the  wretched  delay.  With  their  hats  and 
veils  and  gloves  on  and  their  wraps  close  at  hand  they 
waited  in  plaintive  patience,  each  certain  that  he  would 
not  come  but  neither  daring  to  voice  the  conviction. 

The  grim  old  clock  in  the  hall  banged  the  hour  of  nine. 
Unconsciously  they  found  themselves  hoping  that  it 
would  stop  on  the  stroke  of  eight.  Oh,  if  it  had  only 
stopped  then  !  But  it  clanged  on  and,  somehow,  it 
seemed  that  it  meant  to  strike  ten  in  its  cruel  irony  and 
then  relented  before  it  was  too  late  to  recall  the  stroke. 
A  deep  sigh  fell  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Blynn.  She  glanced 
at  each  of  her  daughters  with  a  wan,  pathetic  smile. 

Katie,  the  housemaid,  came  to  the  door  and  in  rather 
subdued  tones  inquired  if  Bridget  should  keep  dinner 
warm  for  Mr.  Sedgewick. 

"I  suppose  he's  had  his  dinner,"  said  Miss  Hettie 

u       T 

sharply. 

"  Perhaps  not,  if  he  has  been  delayed  on  the  car  line," 
interposed  the  mother,  still  hoping.  "Tell  her  to  keep 


m 


[42  j 

the  steak  near  the  fire,  Katie,  and  be  ready  to  make  him 
some  hot  coffee." 

"Very  well,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Blynn  moved  her  chair  to  a  spot  where  she  could 
look  upon  the  sidewalk.  Miss  Hettie  had  raised  the 
shade  some  time  before.  From  time  to  time  one  or  an 
other  of  them  spoke  of  the  act  they  had  missed  or  re 
peated  some  oft-given  remark  about  Sedgewick's  non- 
appearance.  Neither  of  them  had  a  word  of  criticism  to 
offer;  they  steadfastly  clung  to  the  certainty  that  he  had 
been  unavoidably  detained  —  a  discrepancy  in  Provi 
dence,  not  Sedgewick  Blynn. 

"The  sidewalks  are  very  icy,"  said  Mrs.  Blynn,  fol 
lowing  one  of  her  quick  glances  down  the  street. 

"It's  very  cold,"  said  Miss  Anna.  After  a  moment's 
reflection  she  added:  "How  I  hate  to  go  out  on  a  night 
like  this." 

Miss  Hettie  looked  up  quickly.  "The  street  cars  are 
always  so  crowded,  and  goodness  knows  how  many 
germs  one  might  get.  There's  pneumonia,  grippe, 
scarlet  fever,  and  — 

"As  if  we'd  catch  scarlet  fever  at  our  age,"  cried  Miss 
Anna,  with  a  well-delivered  laugh. 

"My  dear,  it's  very  serious  if  one  does  get  it  at  our 
age,"  said  Miss  Hettie.  "Is  n't  it,  mother?" 

"It's  very  serious  with  children,  no  matter  when  they 
get  it,"  said  Mrs.  Blynn,  trying  to  fall  in  with  the  spirit 
of  the  others.  "I  do  hope  Sedgewick  has  n't  slipped  on 
the  icy  pavement  and  hurt  himself  in  a  fall." 


CE?    **=*=St*&!x=s3*/s*   «•  -JkSU^  0 

Ol  [43] 

"He  never  slips,"  said  Miss  Hettie  quietly. 

"Doesn't  he  always  say  that  he'll  land  on  his  feet, 
mother?"  added  Miss  Anna  airily. 

"An  accident  is  an  accident,  however,"  said  their 
mother,  going  to  the  window  for  a  long,  intense  look 
into  the  gas-lit  street.  Miss  Hettie  seized  the  opportunity 
to  shake  her  fist  at  a  framed  photograph  of  a  bright-faced 
young  man,  that  stood  on  the  centre  table  beneath  the 
lamp. 

At  half-past  nine,  Mrs.  Blynn  slowly  began  to  remove 
the  pins  from  her  bonnet,  still  facing  the  window  with 
her  back  to  the  girls.  Her  voice  trembled  ever  so  slightly 
as  she  said: 

"I  don't  believe  he  is  coming,  girls.  We  might  as  well 
take  off  our  hats  and  —  go  to  bed.  I  am  —  I  am  so 
very  sorry,  girls,  that  you  could  not  have  gone  to-night. 
You  must  be  terribly  disappointed.  It  is  —  " 

"Tush,  mother,"  cried  Miss  Hettie  quickly. 

"I  really  did  not  care  to  go  out,  my  dears.  My  cold 
is  bothering  me  and,  really,  you  know,  bed  is  the  place 
for  me  —  with  a  hot-water  bottle.  But  with  you  —  it's 
different.  You  would  have  loved  Miss  Barrymore.  I 
-I  don't  see  why  —  Hettie,  perhaps  you'd  better  see 
if  the  telephone  is  out  of  order.  He  may  have  called  up 
and  could  not  get  us." 

Deliberately,  without  comment,  the  three  disappointed 
women  removed  their  hats  and  gloves.  Miss  Anna  forced 
a  smile  of  gratification  into  her  face  as  she  gaily  tossed 
her  hat  upon  the  table. 


[44] 

"Thank  heaven,  mother,  you're  not  disappointed; 
you  may  be  sure  I'm  not.  I've  actually  been  lament 
ing  the  fact  that  I  had  to  go  out.  Since  you  don't  mind 
missing  the  play,  I  '11  confess  that  I  was  —  well,  what 
Sedgewick  calls  grouchy  about  leaving  a  warm  fireside 
to-night.  I  would  n't  have  let  you  know  it  for  the  world, 
though.  I  'm  so  interested  in  this  book  of  Hardy's.  You 
must  read  it,  mother.  Goodness,  it  makes  me  furious 
to  think  of  the  two  hours  I  've  missed  this  evening.  A 
book  beats  a  play  all  to  pieces." 

"Give  me  Anthony  Hope  every  time,"  commented  Miss 
Hettie,  jerking  off  her  glove.  "Mother,  shall  I  take  your 
things  up-stairs  ? " 

"Yes,  dear.  I  —  I  think  I'll  read  awhile  myself." 
They  observed  the  deepening  lines  at  the  corners  of  her 
mouth;  her  nether  lip  quivered  for  a  second  before  she 
could  reclaim  control  of  it.  There  was  a  dull,  lifeless 
look  in  her  faded,  sweet  old  face. 

The  truth  had  come  home  to  her. 

Miss  Hettie  scowled  fiercely  as  she  hurried  up  the 
stairway.  Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  and  her  heart  was 
full. 

"Don't  forget  to  try  the  telephone,  Hettie,"  was  Mrs. 
Blynn's  quavering  injunction. 

"All  right,  mother,"  came  back  in  subdued  tones. 

Mrs.  Blynn  wearily  picked  up  her  book  from  the 
table  and  sank  into  the  chair  that  was  always  hers.  As 
she  adjusted  her  reading  glasses,  Miss  Anna  came  over 
and  put  an  arm  about  her  frail  shoulders. 


"&l 


[45] 

"I'm  glad  you  did  n't  mind,  mother,"  she  said,  with 
the  tact  of  a  loving  deceiver.  "We  did  n't,  I'm  sure." 

"I  thought  you'd  be  bitterly  disappointed,"  murmured 
the  mother  gratefully,  but  she  saw  through  Miss  Anna's 
strategy  with  eyes  that  would  not  be  blinded  again. 

Miss  Hettie  found  them  reading  quietly  by  the  table 
when  she  came  jauntily  down-stairs,  her  own  book  in  her 
hand.  If  Mrs.  Blynn  had  looked  sharply  enough  she 
might  have  seen  a  queer  light  in  Miss  Hettie's  eyes. 
Miss  Hettie  was  about  to  tell  a  lie  —  a  white  lie,  of 
course  —  and  it  was  something  she  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  doing. 

"The  telephone  must  be  out  of  order,  mother,"  she 
said,  involuntarily  blushing  as  Miss  Anna  looked  up. 
"I  can't  get  Central." 

"Ah,  that's  it !"  cried  her  mother,  her  face  lighting  up 
instantly.  "He  could  not  reach  us." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  her  mouth  when  the 
telephone  bell  rang  testily,  aye,  ironically.  Miss  Hettie 
gasped  and  lost  her  wits  completely. 

Miss  Anna  stepped  into  the  breach.  "Go  and  answer 
it,  Hettie.  The  repairs  must  have  just  been  completed. 
Dear  me,  how  those  men  must  suffer  who  work  on  the 
lines  such  weather  as  this." 

"I  will  answer  it,  Hettie,"  said  Mrs.  Blynn.  "It's 
Sedgewick  and  he's  been  trying  to  get  us  all  evening." 
She  went  up-stairs  more  quickly  than  they  had  seen  her 
move  in  many  months.  Breathlessly  they  listened  to  her 
voice  as  she  responded  to  the  speaker  at  the  other  end. 


SLJW2. 


[46] 

When  she  hung  up  the  receiver  and  started  down-stairs, 
Miss  Hettie  whispered  her  first  words  of  secession : 

"I'll  bet  he's  lied  to  her  like  a  trooper!"  Her  eyes 
blazed. 

"Be  careful,  Hettie!" 

Mrs.  Blynn  went  to  the  speaking  tube  that  led  to  the 
kitchen  before  addressing  herself  to  the  silent  daughters 

"Bridget,  don't  keep  Mr.  Sedgewick's  dinner  any 
longer.  He  —  he  has  been  detained."  Then  to  the 
girls:  "It  is  as  I  thought.  He  has  tried  to  get  me  five 
or  six  times." 

A  quick,  wondering  glance  sped  between  Miss  Hettie 
and  Miss  Anna.  It  said  plainly  that  they  knew  she  did 
not  believe  what  he  had  told  her.  They  did  not  ask 
where  he  was. 


WJ 


G 


CHAPTER  III 

THE      FRIENDSHIP 

EORGE  PENNINGTON  was  a  temperamental 
person  —  one  might  say  an  impressionable  one 
and  not  be  stretching  the  point.  He  was  forty- 
five  if  he  was  a  day,  and  yet  he  found  himself  nourishing 
a  sudden,  unusual  liking  for  the  gay  fledgeling,  Sedge- 
wick  Blynn,  twenty  years  his  junior.  He  made  no  doubt 
that  his  new-found  impressions  were  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  young  man  had  said  good-night  to  his  mother  and 
was,  according  to  report,  in  the  habit  of  doing  so,  no 
matter  how  he  was  situated.  It  was  his  innermost  belief 
that  the  man  who  could  pay  such  sweet  gentle  homage 
to  the  little  mother  at  home  could  not  be,  by  any  manner 
of  means,  as  selfish  and  unworthy  as  the  general  run  of 
society  men  as  he  had  come  to  know  them. 

He  waited  two  or  three  days,  hearing  in  the  meantime 
more  than  one  slighting  remark  concerning  the  vainglori 
ous  pet  of  society,  and  then  casually  asked  Blynn  to 
lunch  with  him  at  the  club.  They  met  in  the  reading 
room;  Pennington's  invitation  was  well-meant  and 
spontaneous.  He  really  wanted  to  like  the  young  man; 
he  believed  he  was  worth  while  and  not  in  a  fair  way  to 
be  spoiled,  as  most  men  prophesied. 

«^T 


[48] 

Sedgewick's  wry,  apologetic  smile  was  an  appeal  to 
the  unexpected  friendliness  of  the  older  man.  Penning- 
ton's  heart  grew  warmer;  in  his  mind  he  said  that  there 
was  something  more  than  lovable  in  the  young  man's 
manner.  Blynn's  smile  was  almost  his  fortune. 

"I'd  like  to,  Mr.  Pennington,  but  I've  —  I've  half 
way  promised  to  lunch  with  Mr.  Ransome.  He  wants 
to  talk  something  over  with  me."  Sedgewick  was  look 
ing  grievously  disappointed.  "I  say,  would  you  mind 
waiting  a  moment?"  he  went  on  earnestly.  "I'll  tele 
phone  to  Mr.  Ransome  and  tell  him  I'll  drop  in  at  his 
office  this  afternoon.  I'd  like  very  much  to  lunch  with 
you,  thank  you,  if  I  can  arrange  it."  He  hurried  off 
to  the  telephone  booth  and  called  for  Mr.  Ransome's 
offices. 

Ransome  was  one  of  the  great  financial  leaders  of  the 
country.  His  acquaintance  with  this  young  sprig  of 
fashion  was  of  the  most  casual  nature.  The  great  man 
was  too  busy  to  go  in  for  society;  it  was  not  likely  that 
he  should  come  in  contact  with  its  most  popular  expo 
nent  except  on  occasions  when  he  was  obliged  to  listen 
to  the  pleas  of  committee  men  who  undertook  to  provide 
him  with  boxes  for  the  charity  entertainments  at  five 
hundred  dollars  per  box,  to  say  nothing  of  the  horse  and 
motor  shows,  where  he  might  have  been  seen  quite  regu 
larly.  It  would  seem  that  he  preferred  the  society  of 
horses  and  motors  to  that  of  his  fellow  creatures  as 
represented  by  the  set  to  which  he  belonged  by  virtue 
of  his  wife's  religious  views  —  which  had  nothing  what- 


[49] 

. 

soever  to  do  with  God,  but  were  rather  arbitrary  in  respect 
to  a  certain  creed. 

Over  the  telephone  Mr.  Blynn  graciously  informed 
Mr.  Ransome's  secretary  that  he  would  personally  de 
liver  to  the  kind  gentleman  the  tickets  and  reservations 
for  the  great  charity  concert  on  the  27th,  and  would  do 
so  during  the  afternoon.  He  had  expected  to  hand  them 
to  Mr.  Ransome  during  luncheon  at  the  club,  but  as  he 
was  lunching  himself  with  some  one  else  he  was  afraid 
he  might  miss  him  in  the  rush.  In  response  to  which 
the  secretary,  perhaps  not  recognising  this  as  an  ex 
planation  for  Mr.  Blynn's  inability  to  lunch  with  Mr. 
Ransome,  merely  replied,  "Very  well,"  and  hung  up 
the  receiver. 

But,  of  course,  Mr.  Pennington  could  not  have  known 
of  the  difficulties  attending  Mr.  Blynn's  sacrifice  on  his 
account.  He  was  only  relieved  when  Blynn  returned 
with  a  smile  on  his  frank  countenance,  to  announce  that 
he  had  put  the  old  gentleman  off  and  would  be  free  to 
lunch  with  him. 

"Are  you  on  the  inside  with  Ransome  ?"  asked  Pen 
nington  as  they  waited  for  the  cocktails.  "You're  a 
lucky  dog  if  you  are." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Sedgewick,  with  becoming  candour; 

"my  affairs  are  too  insignificant  to  interest  him.     I'm 

. 
merely  a  small  satellite.     I  hang  on  when  he  is  n't  look- 

J 

ing.  He  had  agreed  to  take  something  off  my  hands, 
that's  all,  —  just  a  trifle,  you  know."  It  was  not  neces 
sary  to  tell  Pennington  that  he  was  chairman  of  the  box 


< 


[50] 

sale  for  the  charity  concert.  He  was  justified  in  taking 
it  for  granted  that  Pennington  had  seen  that  fact  dis 
played  in  the  society  columns  of  the  newspapers. 

That  luncheon  was  the  beginning  of  an  intimacy 
between  the  two  that  amazed  and  even  annoyed  the 
friends  of  the  older  man..  Not  that  they  could  put  a 
finger  on  any  specific  reason  why  it  should  not  exist; 
they  could  say  nothing  when  he  met  their  protests  with 
the  comfortable  assurance  that  he  liked  Blynn  and  that 
there  was  a  great  deal  more  to  him  than  one  might  sus 
pect,  if  judging  merely  by  surface  appearances.  Blynn 
had  a  way  of  making  every  one  like  him,  even  though 
there  may  have  been  some  reason  for  not  admiring  him. 

He  interested  and  amused  Pennington,  who  was  easy 
going  to  the  point  of  carelessness  in  more  ways  than  one. 

Pennington  was  rich,  unselfish,  charitable  toward  the 
foibles  of  others  and  generous  with  his  own.  It  was 
like  him,  as  Stanley  had  said,  to  take  up  with  a  chap 
like  Blynn  just  for  the  sake  of  doing  something  unusual 
in  a  man  of  forty-five.  But  strange  as  it  may  seem  to 
them,  Pennington  found  real  delight  in  going  about 
with  the  omnipresent  young  blade,  quite  to  the  exclusion 
of  his  older  and  better  friends. 

Others  may  not  have  grasped  the  reason  for  all  this; 
but  Pennington  remembered  that  Blynn  was  in  the 
habit  of  saying  good-night  to  his  mother.  Once,  in 
conversation,  he  mentioned  it  to  the  young  man;  there 
after  Sedgewick  made  splendid  capital  of  his  reputation 
for  filial  piety.  It  is  only  fair  to  add  that  he  actually 


[51] 

made  it  a  practice  to  telephone  to  his  mother,  thereby 
setting  a  fashion  among  an  aping  set  of  young  gallants 
that  created  no  end  of  wonder  and  delight  for  the  mothers 
who  found  themselves  unexpectedly  and  rather  con 
spicuously  remembered. 

It  is  of  record  that  during  one  of  Mrs.  Loveless's  week 
end  house-parties  up  the  bay,  the  telephone  tolls  amassed 
by  devoted  sons  amounted  to  something  over  two  hundred 
dollars.  Everybody  said  that  the  world  was  getting 
better,  and  Mrs.  Loveless  was  perfectly  content  to  pay 
the  bill,  without  noticing  how  many  mothers  each  of 
her  young  men  possessed,  nor  how  varied  were  their 
abiding  places. 

Sedgewick  Blynn,  however,  was  not  a  worshipper  at 
the  chorus  girl  shrine. 

The  first  few  months  of  the  friendship  between  George 
Pennington,  clubman  and  capitalist,  and  Sedgewick 
Blynn,  broker  and  sunshine  dealer,  have  little  to  do  with 
the  net  results  of  this  tale,  except  as  they  had  their  bear 
ing  upon  the  natural  development  of  certain  ideals.  So 
cially  they  scarcely  kept  abreast  of  each  other;  Blynn 
went  everywhere  and  travelled  the  path  with  energy; 
while  Pennington,  caring  less  for  the  froth  of  life  as  he 
saw  more  of  it,  accepted  only  such  invitations  as  seemed 
to  promise  real  diversion.  He  sat  back  and  watched  the 
progress  of  his  young  friend  in  the  conquest  of  hearts 
and  smiled  in  true  enjoyment  of  the  other's  campaigns. 
Sedgewick  was  never  wholly  out  of  the  maelstrom.  If 
Pennington  thought  at  all  of  the  young  man's  unique 


[52] 

regard  for  the  purely  business  side  of  his  life,  he  did  not 
permit  it  to  weigh  against  him  in  his  estimation.  He 
could  not  but  have  recognised  the  puerile  methods 
which  characterised  Blynn's  operations. 

Nor  did  it  weigh  against  the  young  man  when,  from 
time  to  time  as  their  friendship  grew,  he  haltingly  re 
quested  the  loan  of  small  sums  to  lift  him  over  sharp 

^\/f^  • 

and    unexpected    chasms.      Pennington    cheerfully    lent 

him  the  money;  he  had  been  young  once  himself  and 
had  lived  beyond  his  means,  with  no  one  to  borrow  from. 
And  Blynn,  notwithstanding  his  tardiness  in  returning 
money  borrowed  from  other  and  younger  companions, 
was  most  punctilious  in  repaying  Pennington.  All  of 
which  held  him  in  great  good  favour  with  that  excellent 
friend. 

The  winter  and  spring  ran  into  summer  and  society 
began  to  look  for  its  pleasures  in  the  country,  at  the 
seashore,  in  the  mountains,  and  about  the  northern  lakes. 
Sedgewick  was  asked  everywhere.  He  was  in  need  of 
wings  or  seven-league  boots;  only  the  magic  tapestry 
of  Scheherazade  could  have  transported  him  to  all  of 
the  hostesses  who  wanted  him  to  come  to  them.  He 
golfed  and  motored  and  sailed  over  a  territory  that  might 
well  have  confounded  him  had  it  not  been  for  George 
Pennington's  generosity. 

Pennington,  the  idler,  enjoyed  his  summers;  he  hated 
the  winters.  Blynn  was  not  pecuniarily  able  to  take 
advantage  of  all  that  was  offered,  a  condition  that  Pen 
nington  was  not  slow  to  appreciate;  it  was  like  him, 


<?^ 

w 

m 


[53] 

therefore,  to  promote  his  own  enjoyment  by  playing  the 
fairy  prince  to  the  humble  knight.  He  cheerfully  insisted 
on  paying  all,  or  nearly  all,  of  the  young  man's  expenses 
when  they  ventured  out  of  town  together  —  which  was 
quite  often,  as  they  dallied  with  the  same  element  of  the 
smart  set. 

It  was  no  unusual  thing  for  Sedgewick  to  stay  for  days 
at  a  time  in  Pennington's  luxurious  apartment,  one 
door  removed  from  the  exclusive  club  of  which  they  were 
members.  He  dressed  there,  and  shaved  there,  and 
bathed  there. 

But,  once  in  a  while,  he  went  home  for  a  night  or  two 
in  succession. 

"I  hate  this  thing  of  running  away  from  my  mother, 
George,"  he  once  said  as  they  were  travelling  north  to 
join  a  big  house  party  in  the  hills.  There  was  a  serious, 
restless  expression  in  his  face.  "She's  old  and  she's  — 
well,  she's  a  bit  frail,  old  man.  By  gad,  I'm  going  to 
cut  it  out  pretty  soon  —  that  is,  a  good  deal  of  it.  I 
don't  see  her  a  tenth  as  much  as  I'd  like  to.  She  wants 
me  to  enjoy  every  bit  of  it,  you  understand.  She 's  the 
best  mother  in  the  world.  I'd  give  my  life,  my  soul  for 
her.  And,  I  say,  George,  she's  just  crazy  about  you. 
I've  told  her  what  a  bully  chap  you  are  and  she's  —  Oh, 
well,  she's  like  any  mother,  I  suppose." 

Pennington's  eyes  gleamed  with  genuine  pleasure. 
Somehow  he  had  come  to  love  this  old  lady  whom  he 
had  never  seen,  to  his  best  recollection.  She  was  like  a 
drtam  to  him  —  a  sweet,  restful  dream. 


\v 


UM 


[54] 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  know  her,"  he  said  warmly. 
"Of  course,  I  knew  your  sisters  —  er  —  some  years  ago, 
but  I  never  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  your  mother." 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  go  out  with  me  and  stay  over 
night,  George.  Mother 'd  be  tickled  to  death.  Your 
name  is  a  household  word,  let  me  tell  you." 

It  is  worthy  of  mention  that  Pennington,  bearing  all 
this  in  mind,  out  of  the  pure  joyousness  of  his  heart, 
sent  a  huge  bunch  of  roses  to  Mrs.  Blynn  immediately 
upon  his  return  to  town,  inclosing  his  card. 

"I'll  let  the  dear  old  lady  see  that  I  appreciate  being 
a  household  word,  if  nothing  else,"  he  said  to  himself. 
He  had  no  response  from  the  recipient  of  this  floral 
attention.  Vaguely  puzzled,  he  waited  for  a  fortnight, 
and  then,  possessed  of  a  whimsical  impulse,  motored 
out  to  the  home  in  Lombard  Avenue.  He  said  nothing 
to  Sedgewick  of  his  intention  for  the  very  excellent  reason 
that  his  young  friend  was  off  for  a  three  days'  stay  with 
the  Carnahans. 

He  was  admitted  by  Katie,  who  went  to  the  door  in  her 
scrub-clothes,  taking  it  for  granted  that  it  was  the  post 
man's  ring.  Mrs.  Blynn  came  down-stairs  with  a  look 
of  polite  askance  in  response  to  his  card. 

When  he  left  the  house  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  his 
own  self-esteem  and  no  little  portion  of  his  confidence 
in  Sedgewick  Blynn  were  severely  stricken.  He  had  dis-. 
covered  almost  instantly  that  his  name,  far  from  being- 
a  household  word,  was  quite  unknown  to  Mrs.  Blynn. 
She  was  pleasantly  surprised  to  receive  a  friend  of  Sedge-. 


.-**. 


[55] 

wick's,  and,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  volunteered  her 
thanks  for  the  roses,  admitting  that  she  was  sorely  puzzled 
at  the  time  of  their  arrival  and  thought  there  must  have 
been  some  mistake.  Still,  there  were  so  few  Blynns.  He 
went  away  half-dazed,  and  more  distressed  than  he  could 
have  imagined. 

It  had  been  revealed  to  him  beyond  question  that 
Sedgewick  had  at  least  exaggerated  the  attitude  of  his 
family  toward  him;  he  had  never  been  so  uncomfortable 
in  his  life;  she  had  graciously  asked  him  to  call  again 
when  Sedgewick  was  at  home,  and  perhaps  he  would 
better  telephone  out  in  advance,  as  her  son  was  so  busy 
in  his  office  that  he  seldom  came  to  his  home.  Besides, 
she  added  with  a  tender  smile,  he  was  something  of  a 
society  man,  and  went  about  a  great  deal  in  the  evening, 
as  doubtless  Mr.  Pennington  would  see  if  he  read  the 
paper. 

In  no  little  distress  of  mind,  he  took  Sedgewick  to 
task  when  that  gentleman  airily  blew  in  from  the  country 
a  few  days  later.  Blynn's  flush  of  annoyance  was  but 
momentary.  He  stooped  over  to  adjust  the  roll  of  his 
trousers  leg,  and  Pennington  missed  the  quick  gleam  of 
apprehension  that  sprung  into  his  eyes.  An  instant 
later  he  was  facing  his  friend,  a  subdued,  disturbed  look 
in  his  face.  "Old  man,"  he  said,  as  if  with  an  effort, 
"it's  just  as  we've  all  feared.  She's  older  than  we've 
been  able  to  understand,  living  with  her  as  we  do.  I  Ve 
noticed  it  for  some  time.  George,  she's  —  she's  losing 
her  memory.  You  know  what  that  means.  Senility, 

~,  -C/1 


lm 


M 


SA 


[56] 

second  childhood  —  Good  Lord,  you  don't  know  how 
it's  been  worrying  me.  Her  mind  retains  nothing  — 
or  practically  nothing  that  bears  on  recent  or  current 
events.  She  talks  of  her  childhood  adventures  and  all 
that.  You  understand,  don't  you?  It's  worse  than  I 
thought.  She's  heard  us  speak  of  you  a  thousand  times. 
I  tell  you,  old  man,  it's  hard  to  bear."  He  got  up  and 
went  over  to  the  window.  Pennington  could  see  his  figure 
grow  taut  with  emotion,  and  his  heart  warmed  again  to 
the  young  man. 

Sedgewick  Blynn  was  saying  to  himself  that  he  would 
have  to  begin  at  once  on  the  belated  task  of  making 
Pennington's  name  a  "household  word."  He  felt  no 
compunction  whatsoever  in  describing  his  mother  as  in 
the  first  steps  of  feeble-mindedness;  it  was  an  inspired 
means  of  absolution. 

"I'll  send  her  roses  every  day,  my  boy,  if  you  say  it  is 
only  the  immediate  present  that  interests  her,"said  Pen 
nington  huskily.  "Let  her  forget  them  the  next  day,  if 
God  wills,  but  they  will  make  her  happy  for  the  moment." 

"Thanks,  old  man.  You're  a  true  nobleman.  /'// 
not  forget  it,  rest  assured.  Now,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  '11 
beg  off  on  that  little  dinner  to-night  and  go  out  to  see 
i-sr  instead.  You  won't  mind  ?" 

For  the  next  week,  little  was  seen  of  Sedgewick  Blynn 
in  his  old  haunts  or  in  the  homes  of  such  friends  as  re 
mained  in  town.  He  declined  a  dozen  invitations;  every 
one  was  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  was  "staying  home" 
because  his  mother  was  not  quite  so  well  as  usual.  His 


Vv'; 

It 


*r 


dns--^ 


C£3     ~*«£<S^«3=>7*   ^ — jkv"-    ...  u      <*  _  . 

[57] 

sisters  were  secretly  apprehensive.  They  wondered  how 
large  his  bills  were  that  his  mother,  sooner  or  later,  would 
volunteer  to  pay.  Incidentally,  they  were  hearing  a 
great  deal  about  the  wonderful  George  Pennington.  It 
was  easily  impressed  upon  them  that  his  daily  roses  were 
a  most  distinguished  tribute  to  his  dearest  friend.  To 
their  amazement,  however,  Sedgewick  had  no  bills  that 
required  instant  attention. 

Pretty  Miss  Carnahan,  now  desperately  in  love  with 
Blynn,  spent  an  uneasy  but  somewhat  exalted  week. 
Other  fair  ladies  may  have  been  just  as  uneasy,  but  they 
were  not  in  a  position  to  complain,  even  to  themselves. 
This  particular  debutante  had  come  to  regard  herself  as 
the  chosen  one  among  all  the  ladies  at  Sedgewick's  court; 
he  plainly  had  given  her  to  understand  as  much.  Tenta 
tively,  they  were  engaged.  She  was  too  young  to  realise 
that  becoming  engaged  is  no  longer  regarded  as  a  serious 
or  even  a  permanent  affection  of  the  heart;  expert  love- 
doctors  make  light  of  it,  in  fact.  They  have  come  to 
treat  it  as  a  rash,  so  to  speak.  But  it  is  quite  contagious 
among  otherwise  normally  healthy  members  of  society. 

Her  exaltation  was  due  to  the  cause  which  kept  him 
away  from  her  for  a  whole  unhappy  week  —  his  per 
fectly  adorable  consideration  for  his  mother.  She  had 
returned  to  town  for  a  fortnight,  solely  to  be  near  him, 
but  she  made  herself  believe  that  it  was  a  joy  to  sacri 
fice  herself  to  a  cause  so  noble.  It  was,  of  course,  not 
beyond  Bessie  Carnahan  to  be  jealous;  she  had  lost  no 
little  sleep  over  his  care-free  wanderings  into  other  fields. 


[58] 

It  was  quite  easy  for  her  to  hate  Beatrice  Gray,  who 
had  been  out  a  year  longer  than  herself,  and  to  whom 
Sedgewick  paid  unmistakable  homage  between  times, 
as  it  were. 

Miss  Carnahan,  putting  it  bluntly  to  herself,  made 
not  the  slightest  doubt  that  they  were  quite  deep  in  a 
flirtation.  Nor  was  Miss  Gray  the  only  young  lady  to 
whom  he  was  conspicuously  agreeable.  Moreover,  she 
had  reason  to  resent  his  attentions  to  certain  young  and 
charming  married  women  of  the  smart  set.  There  had 
been  queer  things  said  of  his  goings-on  with  Mrs.  Field 
ing;  and  then  there  was  blond,  airy  Mrs.  Thorp  who 
had  virtually  introduced  him  to  the  exclusive  set.  They 
were  surely  to  be  taken  into  consideration  by  a  tenta 
tively  engaged  girl.  Besides,  people  were  beginning  to 
link  his  name  with  that  of  Mrs.  Johnny  Gordon,  George 
Pennington's  young  married  sister.  They,  too,  were  seen 
together  very  often  of  late,  and  usually  without  Johnny 
on  hand  as  a  counter-balance.  Mrs.  Gordon  was  very 
pretty  and  very  smart  and  altogether  very  much  worth 
while. 

Before  the  end  of  her  first  week  in  town,  Miss 
Carnahan  found  herself  prey  to  a  dozen  different 
and  equally  dismal  doubts,  each  doubt  being  com 
prehensive  of  a  separate  and  distinct  member  of  her 
own  sex. 

He  telephoned  to  her  frequently,  but  it  was  not  until 
the  second  week  of  her  stay  that  he  professed  a  willing 
ness  to  leave  his  mother.  He  came  to  see  Bessie  one 


J^it/  /sJ>u^ 


[59] 

evening.  She  was  full  of  her  doubts  and  misgivings, 
and  she  was  young  enough  to  be  eager  to  set  them  at 
rest  without  delay  or  diplomacy. 

They  sat  in  the  narrow,  vine-screened  balcony  which 
opened  from  the  hall  up-stairs  and  looked  down  upon 

lj    V  V  x"""^  if 

the  avenue  with  a  cool,  aloof  exclusiveness  that  de 
fended  it  from  the  stare  of  the  curious,  who,  it  seems, 
have  eyes  for  nothing  but  the  palatial.  The  buzz  of 
the  night  came  up  to  them,  laden  with  sounds  near  and 
afar,  sounds  unheeded,  unnoticed,  yet  forever  dinning 
in  the  senseless  ears  of  the  Babel-dwellers.  He  gently 
caressed  the  slim  hand  of  the  girl;  twice  he  had  kissed 
it  tenderly.  Something  in  his  manner  told  her  that  he 
was  depressed,  even  disturbed  over  the  condition  of  his 
mother.  A  new  and  sweeter  tone  vibrated  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke  of  her;  the  week  had  been  one  of  rare 
joy  and  contentment  to  her,  and  he  could  never  forget 
that  he  was  in  a  measure  responsible.  The  vain  girl's 
heart  warmed  itself  once  more  before  the  fires  of  its 
own  sacrifice. 

Sedgewick  could  not  tell  her,  of  course,  that  a  large 
part  of  his  depression  was  due  to  the  kindly  though 
rather  imperative  warning  that  his  best  friend  had  given 
him  earlier  in  the  evening.  Pennington  had  advised 
him  to  choose  between  Miss  Carnahan  and  Miss  Gray, 
or  cease  his  attentions  to  both. 

"  People  are  bound  to  give  you  the  devil  if  you  keep 
on  trifling  with  the  one  you  don't  intend  to  marry,"  he 
had  said,  rather  seriously. 

,r<5^Vi— ' 


^ 


[60] 

"But  suppose  that  I  don't  intend  to  marry  either  of 
them,"  was  Sedgewick's  reply,  a  trace  of  defiance  in  his 
voice. 

"Then  people  will  be  quite  right  in  giving  you  the 
devil,  my  boy,"  replied  the  other,  after  a  long  look  into 
the  young  man's  eyes.  "Moreover,  I  'd  give  up  running 
after  Mrs.  Fielding.  It  does  n't  matter  just  now,  per 
haps,  but  if  some  of  these  other  women  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  pay  you  off  one  way  or  another,  you  '11  come  a 
hard  cropper.  You  can't  play  with  two  fires  at  the  same 
time,  Sedge.  One  of  them  is  bound  to  burn  out.  For 
give  me  for  speaking  quite  plainly,  but  I  'm  older  than 
you,  and  I  've  seen  other  men  playing  with  fire.  It 
does  n't  pay." 

"I  don't  have  anything  to  do  with  chorus  girls  and 
that  sort,  George.  By  gad,  I  'm  doing  nothing  wrong," 
he  exclaimed  resentfully. 

"My  dear  boy,  don't  try  to  convince  yourself  that  all 
the  wrong  in  the  world  lies  in  the  chorus  girl." 

"I  'm  not  saying  anything  against  'em." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  other,  with  a 
friendly  smile.  "I  hope  you  won't  take  what  I  've  said 
amiss.  You  're  popular,  you  're  a  favourite  everywhere. 
Every  one  likes  you  and  —  ' 

"Oh,  not  every  one,"  muttered  Blynn. 

" — you  can't  afford  to  jeopardise  this  good  opinion. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  can  afford  to  marry,  but  I  'm 
quite  sure  that  you  're  good  enough  for  any  one  of  the 
girls.  You  'd  make  your  way  without  their  money." 


[61] 

BIynn  gave  him  a  quick  look  and  then  his  face  lightened 
perceptibly.  "But,  Sedge,  don't  get  a  reputation  for 
being  a  flirt,  a  trifler.  It 's  hard  to  live  down  —  even 
after  you  are  married;  and,  more  than  all  this,  don't 
put  yourself  in  the  position  of  having  your  motives 
questioned.  Don't  do  anything  to  jeopardise  the 
good  name  of  any  young  and  foolish  —  er  —  married 
woman." 

With  this  he  turned  away  to  relight  his  cigar.  Blynn 
looked  at  his  back  for  an  instant,  the  red  flush  of  resent 
ment  leaping  to  his  cheeks.  Then  a  sudden  pallor  crept 
up  to  replace  the  flame;  his  eyes  grew  wide  and  then 
narrowed  in  the  eager  intent  to  read  the  other's  mind. 
A  chill  swept  over  him,  his  fingers  moved  restlessly;  a 
feeling  of  apprehension  that  became  almost  a  conviction 
seized  upon  him.  Did  Pennington  mean  —  but  no,  he 
could  not  suspect  anything  like  that !  That  would  be 
too  bad !  It  would  mean  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and, 
after  all,  Sedgewick  Blynn  was  a  special  kind  of  coward : 
he  was  afraid  of  the  unspoken  reproach.  No,  he  said 
to  himself,  even  as  his  heart  stood  still  with  strange 
alarm,  Pennington  could  not  have  had  that  in  mind 
when  he  so  coolly  warned  him  against  jeopardising  — 
Good  Lord,  he  could  not  have  heard  anything  like  that ! 
Why,  he  would  be  the  last  man  to  hear  gossip  of  that 
sort! 

< V  v)  S2) 

His  hand  shook  as  he  flecked  the  ash  from  his  cigar 
ette.  He  cast  two  furtive  glances  at  his  now  silent 
friend,  one  of  doubt,  the  other  of  decision.  In  that 


.£¥' 


1 


fr 


[62] 

instant  he  made  up  his  mind  to  take  no  chances  against 
losing  this  man's  friendship.  There  was  too  much  at 
stake.  It  was  not  too  late.  He  had  come  to  recognise 
the  peril  in  ample  time  to  avoid  the  catastrophe. 

"Thanks,  old  man,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  husky 
with  an  emotion  which  the  other  man  misinterpreted. 
"You  are  always  right.  I  never  realised  what  it  might 
mean  —  this  frivoling  of  mine." 

"You  take  it  in  good  heart,  Sedge?"  asked  the  older 
man  wistfully. 

"Certainly.  And,  truly,  I  am  much  obliged.  It 's 
damn  good  of  you  to  talk  to  me  as  you  have." 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  in  the  telephone  booth 
down-stairs  talking  with  Mrs.  Johnny  Gordon,  explain 
ing  in  a  hurried  sort  of  way  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  him  to  keep  his  engagement  to  corre  to  her  little 
Bridge  party  that  evening.  She  did  not  play,  and  he 
had  promised  to  amuse  her  while  the  others  fought  in 
secret  wrath  over  the  card  tables.  She  pleaded  and 
stormed  and  pouted,  but  he  was  firm;  he  was  sorry, 
but  something  unexpected  had  turned  up.  He  hung  up 
the  receiver  with  a  sigh  —  a  sigh  that  was  almost  pa 
thetic  in  its  renunciation. 

"I  hated  to  do  that,"  he  said  to  himself,  over  and  over 
again.  He  still  remained  in  the  booth,  debating  a  ques 
tion  that  now  seemed  to  be  forcing  itself  upon  him. 
At  last,  he  sighed  again  and  took  down  the  receiver. 
He  was  convincing  himself  in  that  instant  that  he  had 
decided  the  question,  "for  good  and  all." 

TflL./s/r  _gS*L_  .  fiTI  -    (/" 


r/ 


</   \l  Y 

fa>  /  n 
^gJLA 


He  called  up  the  Carnahan  home  and  asked  Bessie 
if  he  might  come  over,  in  the  event  that  she  expected  to 
be  quite  alone.  It  had  required  some  strength  of  pur 
pose  on  his  part  to  decide  whether  to  call  up  Miss  Car 
nahan,  Miss  Gray,  or  the  one  he  had  carried  over  from 
the  previous  season,  Miss  Elsmore. 


If 

\   II   /~*3^ 


f^-f 


CHAPTER  IV 

COMPOSITE    HEROISM 

IT  was  his  policy  to  belittle  himself  to  Miss  Car- 
nahan,  confident  that  she  felt  she  knew  him  well 
enough  to  resent  the  all  but  heroic  self-abasement. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  to  her  lightly,  after  he  had  played 
with  her  emotions  for  half  an  hour  or  more,  "you 
should  n't  love  me,  —  you  really  should  not.  I  'm  scan 
dalously  heartless,  and  you  are  nothing  but  heart.  We  'd 
make  a  sorry  combination.  You  'd  find  me  out  in  a 
little  while,  and  —  well,  I  shudder  to  think  of  what 
you  'd  think."  He  lighted  his  fifth  cigarette  and  smiled 
his  most  alluring  smile. 

She  laughed  in  ruthless  response  to  his  mood.  "You 
would  find  me  out,  too,  at  the  same  time.  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  'II  ever  get  over  being  a  fool  —  about  you."  She 
added  the  last  words  with  a  soft  break  in  her  voice  that 
moved  him  in  spite  of  his  arrant  conceitedness. 

"That's  just  it,  dear,"  he  said,  with  quaint  despair. 
"That 's  just  what  people  would  be  calling  you  if  you 
married  me." 

"Nonsense!"  she  cried,  resentful  at  the  mere  thought 
of  it. 

3TD  £>S^ 


[65] 

"But  I  love  you  —  I  do  love  you!"  he  burst  forth 
intensely.  That  was  enough.  No  one  could  say  it  as 
he  did;  no  one  could  have  so  thrilled  her  with  those 
oft-repeated  words.  She  was  young,  but  she  was  not 
without  experience.  Other  youths  had  told  her  as 
much  as  he,  but,  ah,  there  was  such  a  difference !  She 
had  not  yet  got  beyond  the  stage  when  she  must  catch 
her  breath  and  tremble  every  time  he  uttered  the  magic 
cry. 

After  many  minutes  she  drew  away,  faint  with  exal 
tation,  yet  possessed  of  an  ever-recurring  sense  of  guilt 
and  apprehension.  In  all  the  weeks  of  their  fervid  love- 
making,  she  had  never  been  quite  free  from  this  strange 
feeling  of  restraint;  it  always  came,  with  subtle  insist 
ence,  at  the  very  instant  when  she  felt  herself  being 
carried  completely  away  by  his  impelling  ardour.  She 
did  not  know  it  then,  but  it  was  the  real  woman  re 
volting  against  the  thing  that  was  not  real.  Something 
within  her  reasoned,  and  she  was  shamed  without 
knowing  why.  If  it  had  been  the  true,  undying  love 
that  spent  itself  in  these  manifestations,  her  timid  wo 
manhood  would  not  have  shrunk  back  into  itself  at 
such  moments  as  these.  This  was  but  the  passing  of  a 
restless  young  dream  in  which  she  was  half  awake  all 
the  time. 

Sedgewick  Blynn  had  uttered  the  same  words  to  other 
girls  in  the  same  fervent  way.  But  he  was  always  able 
to  convince  himself  that  he  meant  them. 

"Sedgewick.  dear,  I  wonder—  "  she  hesitated,  a  pec 


plexed  look  in  her  dark  eyes—  "I  wonder  if  you  really 
love  me  better  than  all  else  in  the  world."  There 
was  a  pleading,  uncertain  quaver  in  her  voice. 

He  looked  properly  aggrieved.  "Bessie,  darling,  why 
do  you  say  that  ?  Do  you  —  can  you  doubt  me  ?  Good 
h'eaven,  I  'm  —  I  'm  mad  about  you.  I  know  I  'm  not 
worthy  of  your  love,  dearest,  but  —  Oh,  you  must  be 
lieve  that  I  'd  give  my  whole  life  to  possess  and  cherish  it." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  the  strange  doubt  still 
lingering  in  her  mind.  "Oh,  I  do  hope  you  have  never 
said  that  to  any  other  girl,"  she  whispered. 

"To  —  any  —  other  —  girl!"  he  ejaculated  in  fine 
horror.  "My  soul,  what  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

She  dissolved.  "Don't  —  please  don't  be  angry, 
Sedgewick.  I  'm  so  —  yes,  I  am  so  jealous.  I  can't 
bear  the  thought  of —  of — 

"Of  what,  dearest?"  he  asked,  patting  her  hand  con 
solingly. 

"Well,  that  you  may  be  interested  in  Beatrice  Gray. 
Now,  don't  laugh  at  me.  I  can't  help  it.  Every  one 
says  you  are  devoted  to  her.  They  come  to  me  with  it 
just  because  they  want  to  say  something  hateful.  I 
know  you  like  her.  But  I  —  I  hate  her!" 

"Dear  me!"  he  scoffed  gently.  "You  almost  con 
vince  me  that  Beatrice  is  really  interested  in  me.  She  is 
pretty,  you  '11  admit." 

"Don't  be  mean !  You  're  just  saying  that  to  irritate 
me.  You  can  be  so  hateful,  Sedgewick." 

He   realised   more   than   ever   how  young  she  was. 


WJJ 


[67] 

"  Dear  little  girl,  you  '11  be  very  unhappy,  and  you  'II 
grow  old  and  get  wrinkles  before  your  time  if  you  let 
jealousy  get  hold  of  you.  It 's  an  awful  trouble.  Girls 
get  green  all  over  and  —  " 

"They  don't!  They  get  blue  all  over.  Tell  me, 
right  now,  Sedgewick  Blynn,  are  you  ever  going  to  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  Beatrice  Gray  ?  I  must  know." 
She  resisted  his  attempt  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  "You  've 
just  got  to  choose  between  us!" 

He  turned  very  serious.  "You  hurt  me  more  than  you 
can  possibly  know,"  he  said.  "I  have  told  you  I  love 
only  you.  You  doubt  me.  I  can't  do  any  more  than 
repeat  that  I  love  you.  If  you  really  care  for  me  you 
will  not  doubt  that  love.  You  will  not  take  it  out  on 
poor  Beatrice  Gray,  who  is  nothing  to  me  —  she  's  a 
good  friend  and  a  good  sort,  and  you  don't  mean  what 
you  say  about  her.  When  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
you  better  than  my  life,  that  ought  to  prove  to  you 
that  I  have  chosen,  if  such  a  thing  as  choosing  is 
necessary." 

"Forgive  me,  dearest.  I 'm  a  cat  —  a  little  beast  of 
a  cat." 

"Don't  cry,  darling.  There,  now!  We'll  forget 
what 's  happened.  It 's  better  to  quarrel  before  we  're 
married  than  after."  For  a  long  time  they  were  silent. 
He  was  turning  something  over  in  his  active  brain.  "I 
wonder  what  your  father  will  say  when  I  ask  him  for 
you." 

"He'll   do  anything  I  wish,"  she  said  confidently. 


—*<3- 


[68] 

She  always  had  had  everything  she  wanted,  so  why 
not  a  husband  of  her  own  choosing  ? 

"But  you  are  so  young." 

"Not  so  young  as  I  was  last  fall,  when  I  came  out," 
she  said  wisely.  "Dear  me,  I  '11  never  forget  how 
sleepy  I  used  to  be  when  I  went  to  the  theatre,  or 
when  people  called  and  stayed  after  my  old  bedtime. 
But  now  I  can  stay  up  all  night.  I  never  want 
to  sleep,  except  at  breakfast  time.  But,  papa  will 
understand." 

"I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that." 

"Besides,  I  don't  want  to  be  married  for  a  couple  of 
years,"  she  went  on  serenely.  "I  must  have  at  least 
two  seasons  as  Miss  Carnahan.  So,  you  see,  we  won't 
have  to  say  anything  to  father  just  yet." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  curious  chill  in  his  heart. 
To  himself  he  said:  "You  little  wretch!  If  I  give  you 
two  years  you  '11  have  forgotten  me  completely.  I  know 
girls  too  well."  Aloud  he  said:  "I  don't  like  the  idea 
of  keeping  it  a  secret.  I  'm  honest,  and  I  don't  think 
it 's  right  to  do  anything  in  the  dark.  Your  father 
must  be  told,  if  it 's  to  be  a  real  engagement." 

She  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
quite  frankly:  "But  it  wouldn't  be  wise,  Sedgewick. 
Papa  likes  you,  but  he  —  well,  he  is  n't  quite  satisfied 
with  your  business  prospects.  Don't  scowl  so !  He  '11 
think  differently,  I  know.  I  know  you  '11  succeed,  and 
you  '11  be  a  great  man.  You  can't  help  it.  But  these 
old  men  can't  understand  that  it  takes  time.  They  are 


VI 


so  foolish  about  it.  Papa  's  one  of  them  and  he  's  — 
he  's  rather  set  in  his  ways.  Don't  you  think  it  would 
be  wise  to  wait  a  —  just  a  little  while  ?  It  might  spoil 
everything  to  ask  him  now." 

Sedgewick  felt  something  come  into  his  throat  and 
stick.  He  knew  that  James  Carnahan  was  not  the  man 
to  allow  his  daughter  to  throw  hersel7  away,  and  he 
knew,  even  better  than  she,  that  it  would  be  suicidal  to 
speak  to  him  at  all.  He  realised  that  he  had  but  one 
chance  to  win  her  for  his  wife.  He  would  have  to  in 
duce  her  to  consent  to  an  elopement  before  the  glamour 
wore  off  of  the  adventure. 

"Of  course,  dear  one,  it  is  for  you  to  say.  I  can't 
do  anything  without  your  consent.  I  don't  like  it,  under 
stand.  I  want  you  now  —  as  soon  as  possible.  I  don't 
want  to  wait  and  I  don't  want  to  hold  you  to  a  secret 
pledge.  I  —  I  shall  tell  my  mother,  of  course.  You 
see,  I  'm  used  to  going  to  her  with  everything.  That 's 
why  I  wanted  to  speak  to  your  father  at  once,  I  suppose. 
Am  I  too  old-fashioned  and  silly?" 

"You  're  the  dearest  thing  in  the  world!  How  proud 
your  mother  must  be  of  you." 

Half  an  hour  later,  she  found  herself  unable  to  resist 
the  impulse  to  dig  into  his  friendship  for  Mrs.  Fielding 
and  Mrs.  Thorpe  and,  last  of  all,  Mrs.  Johnny  Gordon. 
He  pooh-poohed  all  that  she  charged  in  her  semi-playful 
way. 

"But  Mrs.  Johnny  Gordon!  She  is  so  pretty  and  so 
wonderfully  clever.  I  am  really  afraid  of  her.  And 


[70] 

you  are  such  a  great  friend  of  her  brother,  George 
Pennington.  You  must  see  a  great  deal  of  her." 

"I  haven't  seen  her  in  weeks,  my  dear,  so  there. 
We  're  friends  on  George's  account.  Now,  are  you 
done  with  teasing  me  ? " 

The  telephone  bell  rang  at  that  instant.  There  was  a 
wall  'phone  in  the  hallway  just  inside  the  balcony  door. 
The  girl  flew  to  it  with  the  briefest,  most  incontinent 
apology.  Where  he  sat,  he  could  distinctly  hear  her 
part  of  the  conversation.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
identity  of  the  faraway  talker  was  revealed  to  him.  He 
felt  himself  grow  red  and  white  by  turns;  a  bleak  smile 
of  self-commiseration  flitted  across  his  face,  and  then 
his  mind  began  to  work  rapidly  in  the  effort  to  build  up 
a  defence. 

The  person  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  was  George 
Pennington's  sister,  Mrs.  Johnny  Gordon. 

One  sentence  uttered  by  Miss  Carnahan,  in  a  rather 
flustered  treble,  was  sufficient  to  destroy  all  hope  of 
tranquillity  for  him.  Under  his  breath  he  said:  "That 
damned  little  cat ! "  He  did  not  refer  to  Miss  Carnahan. 

The  girl  was  saying:  "It 's  awfully  sweet  of  you,  Mrs. 
Gordon,  but  really  it 's  too  late.  I  should  so  like  to 
come  over  for  the  supper.  You  're  too  dear  for  anything. 
I  '11  tell  Mr.  Blynn  that  you  wanted  him,  too.  Perhaps 
ne  'd  like  to  come  over  any  way.  .  .  .  No,  his  mother 
is  very  much  better.  ...  I  think  he  's  staying  at  the 
club  to-night."  She  called  out  to  Sedgewick:  "Aren't 
you,  Mr.  Blynn?" 


^M. 


"For  a  long  time  they  were  silent" 


[71] 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Mr.  Blynn,  affecting  a  splendid 
ignorance. 

"He  says  he  's  awfully  sorry,"  she  said  into  the  trans 
mitter,  fibbing  blithely.  "He  's  going  out  to  his  mother's 
when  he  leaves  here." 

Sedgewick  felt  more  uncomfortable  than  before.  There 
was  a  spitefulness  in  her  voice  that  he  did  not  like. 

"Is  it  Mrs.  Gordon?  Tell  her  that  I  promised  my 
mother  that  I  'd  — 

But  she  was  chattering  on  glibly:  "Yes,  he's  very 
devoted  to  her.  .  .  .  You  saw  him  at  luncheon  ?  .  .  . 
Oh !  .  .  .  Yes,  he  does  play  rather  a  good  game.  .  .  . 
I  see.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  he  did  say  that  he  'd  dined 
at  your  house  last  night.  .  .  .  Well,  good-night.  So 
sorry  I  can't  come  over.  I  '11  tell  him." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  and  returned  to  the  balcony. 

"I  wish  she  'd  let  me  alone,"  he  blurted  out  irascibly, 
suddenly  deciding  on  a  mode  of  action.  "She's  nice 
and  all  that,  but,  hang  it  all,  a  fellow  gets  tired  of  being 
dragged  into  all  sorts  of  things  at  her  house  just  because 
Johnny  's  got  to  have  some  one  to  play  Bridge  with  him 
all  the  time." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  quietly  for  a  moment,  a  cool 
smile  on  her  lips.  "Don't  you  want  to  go  over  there 
now  ?  It 's  only  ten  o'clock." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  he  exploded.  "I'm  where  I 
want  to  be.  She  pursues  me  like  a  hawk.  It 's  awful ! 
If  it  were  not  for  George  Pentiington  I  'd  tell  her  plainly 
that  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  by  —  " 


[72] 

"Listen,  Sedgewick;  are  you  having  an  —  an  affair 
with  her  ? " 

"Lord,  no!  You  can't  call  it  that.  That's  putting 
it  too  strongly.  She  's  devoted  to  her  husband  — 

"I  know.  But  that  doesn't  prevent  you  from  being 
devoted  to  her." 

"Don't  be  silly,  dear.  She  's  all  right.  She  's  always 
rushing  some  fellow,  don't  you  know  ?  But  it 's  perfectly 
harmless." 

"You  were  there  last  night." 

"For  a  few  minutes.  I  'd  forgotten  it.  George  and 
I  stopped  in  on  our  way  down  from  the  Country  Club." 

"She  said  she  had  n't  seen  her  brother  in  a  week." 

"Pooh!    She  's  dreaming,"  he  said  easily. 

"You  'd  better  go  over  to  her  place,"  she  insisted 
stubbornly.  "You  '11  have  a  much  better  time  there 
than  here.  Besides,  I  'm  going  to  bed  before  long." 

"If  you  mean  that  you  want  me  to  leave,  I  '11  go, 
Bessie,"  he  said  stiffly,  arising  from  his  chair.  "But  I 
shall  not  go  over  to  Mrs.  Gordon's.  I  'm  not  going  to 
be  dragged  around  by  her  any  more,  let  me  tell  you  that. 
I  'm  sick  of  her  —  plain  sick.  Good-night!" 

She  detained  him  with  a  quick  gesture.  "Are  you 
angry  ?  I  was  hateful.  Don't  go  —  please !  I  know 
she  's  been  running  after  you  abominably,  and  you  've 
tried  to  keep  me  from  finding  it  out.  After  all,  it  was 
the  manly  thing  to  do.  Sit  down,  dear.  I  did  n't  mean 
to  be  so  horrid." 

He  sat  down,  triumphant.      After  he  left  her  at  mid- 


tfS. 


\r\l. 


m  % 


[73] 

night,  she  went  to  bed  to  lie  awake  and  wonder  for  hours 
if  anything  in  the  world  could  be  more  delicious  than 
his  pretty  picture  of  an  elopement.  Of  course,  she  knew 
that  he  was  jesting,  but,  oh,  how  dear  it  would  be  if 
they  could  only  dare  attempt  it  all  in  "real  earnest." 

To  himself  he  was  arguing:  "I  've  got  to  do  it  pretty 
soon,  or  it  will  all  go  up  in  smoke.  The  old  man 
would  n't  pick  me  as  a  son-in-law  —  not  in  a  thousand 
years.  It 's  up  to  me  to  pick  him  as  a  father-in-law, 
but  I  Ve  got  to  do  it  when  he  is  n't  expecting  it.  By 
Jove,  I  believe  she'll  do  it,  too!"  Again  he  reflected: 
"I  '11  have  to  call  that  woman  down,  good  and  hard. 
She  called  up  the  house,  just  to  find  out  if  I  was  there. 
She 's  a  damned  cat.  I  would  n't  have  believed  it, 
either." 

It  was  quite  late  when  he  dropped  from  a  street  car 
and  turned  into  the  street  where  George  Pennington 
lived.  He  was  going  up  to  sleep  in  his  rooms.  The 
little  side  street  was  very  dark  and  entirely  deserted, 
except  for  a  man  who  walked  in  the  same  direction  half 
a  block  ahead.  Suddenly  Blynn's  attention  was  at 
tracted  by  something  that  caused  him  to  stare  hard 
down  the  street. 

The  figure  ahead  had  been  joined  by  several  men, 
shadowy  forms  that  seemed  to  come  up  out  of  the  side 
walk  and  blend  into  one  solid  mass  at  the  mouth  of  the 
alley.  There  was  something  so  sinister  about  it  all  that 
he  instinctively  felt  the  clutch  of  tragedy  at  his  throat. 
An  instant  later  he  was  clearly  cognizant  of  the  fact 

PS*    .  rtn__C7»        JSrta 


' 


o 


Ic^afe®^ 


[74] 

that  he  was  actually  witnessing  the  thing  he  had  read 
about  and  dreaded  for  years  —  a  hold-up  ! 

His  fellow  night-farer  was  being  robbed  within  a 
block  of  the  brilliant  boulevard  —  almost  under  the 
the  eaves  of  the  big  hotels  and  clubs  that  lined  the  way 
beyond.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  situation;  it  was 
all  very  clear  to  him.  He  heard  the  sound  of  a  blow; 
then  a  stifled  groan  came  to  his  ears. 

Sedgewick  Blynn  was  a  moral  but  not  a  physical 
coward.  He  was  strong  and  he  was  full  of  the  spirit 
that  makes  heroes  of  untried  men.  It  was  enough 
for  him  that  a  defenceless  man  was  being  beset  by 
vicious  cowards,  armed  and  prepared  for  the  encounter. 
A  thrill  of  wild  exhilaration  shot  through  him.  With  a 
shout  of  encouragement,  he  dashed  forward  and,  almost 
before  the  assailants  were  aware  cf  his  presence  in  the 
street,  he  was  upon  them. 

A  man,  the  victim,  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
wall,  his  hands  uplifted.  Even  in  his  excitement,  Blynn 
could  see  that  his  long  frame  tottered,  and  something 
told  him  that  blood  was  streaming  down  his  face. 

One  of  the  three  assailants  turned  and  fired  point 
blank  at  the  newcomer.  Blynn  afterwards  avowed,  and 
with  truth,  that  he  heard  the  bullet  as  it  whizzed  past 
his  head.  His  heavy  walking  stick  swung  squarely  upon 
the  fellow's  head  and  he  went  down  with  a  groan.  Still 
shouting  for  help,  Sedgewick  hurled  himself  upon  the 
nearest  ruffian,  striking  wildly  with  his  fists.  The  third 
man  darted  up  the  alley,  and  a  second  later  fired  reck- 


[751 

lessly  toward  the  struggling  group,  for  their  victim  had 
joined  Blynn  in  the  attack.  The  man  with  whom  they 
engaged  had  no  time  to  draw  his  revolver  from  the 
pocket  to  which  it  had  been  restored  while  he  searched 
the  person  of  their  prey.  He  fought  fiercely  with  his 
hands  and  feet  and  gave  as  good  as  he  received. 

The  rush  of  footsteps  down  the  street  came  to  tneir 
ears.  Blynn,  taking  a  savage  blow  in  the  face,  clinched 
with  the  desperado,  clasping  his  arms  about  him  in 
such  a  way  as  to  frustrate  his  efforts  to  reach  his  revolver. 
As  they  swayed  backward  and  forward,  gasping  and 
cursing,  the  street  seemed  to  fill  with  rushing  men. 
Almost  before  they  knew  that  help  was  at  hand,  they 
were  torn  apart  and  a  crowd  of  men  surrounded  them. 
Policemen  came  quickly  at  the  heels  of  the  cabmen  who 
had  been  first  to  the  rescue.  There  were  shrill  whistles, 
loud  shouts,  and  then  Blynn  found  himself  being  led 
away  with  the  two  thugs  and  their  staggering  victim.  He 
was  dizzy  and  there  was  a  frightful  pain  in  his  head. 

"Let  go  of  me!"  he  cried  angrily  to  the  officer  who 
supported  him.  "I  'm  no  thief!" 

"We  '11  wait  and  find  out,"  was  the  sententious  re 
mark  of  the  burly  bluecoat. 

Later,  the  two  desperadoes  were  taken  off  in  the 
patrol  wagon.  It  was  then  that  Blynn  made  his  way 
through  the  excited  crowd  to  the  side  of  the  man  who 
had  been  held  up.  He  wiped  the  blood  from  his  own 
face,  great  clots  of  it.  His  eye  was  swollen  shut  by  this 
time,  and  his  knee  was  stiff  and  sore  from  the  vicious 


[76] 


kick  it  had  received.  Two  men  were  trying  to  take  the 
stranger  into  the  club,  but  he  was  holding  back,  ex 
claiming  that  he  must  see  his  rescuer. 

"Great  Scott!"  shouted  Blynn,  stopping  short  as  he 
came  up  with  the  blood-covered  objector.  "Pen- 
nington!" 

"Blynn!" 

Together  they  were  taken  into  the  club  house  by 
attendants,  talking  wildly  all  the  while  in  their  amaze 
ment.  Neither  was  badly  hurt.  While  they  were  being 
bathed  and  cared  for  by  the  attendants,  pending  the 
arrival  of  the  surgeon,  they  went  over  the  experience 
with  all  the  eagerness  of  excited  boys,  pounding  each 
other  on  the  back  or  shaking  hands  by  turn,  neither 
quite  clear  in  his  mind  as  to  the  reality  of  the  situation. 

While  the  surgeon  was  closing  the  ugly  cut  in  Pen- 
nington's  head,  that  gentleman  was  drowsily  observing 
to  his  valiant  young  friend,  on  whose  bandaged  eye  re 
posed  a  beefsteak  from  the  culinary  regions  below: 

"Sedge,  you  were  a  damn  fool  for  taking  the  chance 
you  did,  but  it  was  the  bravest  thing  I  've  ever  known. 
You  deserve  a  halo,  my  boy!" 

Sedgewick  groaned  disconsolately.  "It  wouldn't  fit, 
old  man.  Look  at  this  lopsided  head  of  mine!" 

"I  said  that  you  deserved  it.  I  did  n't  say  that  you  'd 
ever  get  it.  A  fellow  never  gets  what 's  coming  to  him 
in  the  way  of  haloes.  But,  if  I  live  to  be  a  thousand 
years  old,  my  boy,  I  '11  not  forget  that  I  owe  you  one, 
just  the  same."  He  said  it  with  such  sincere  feeling 


r.O 


"V 


[771 
experienced    an    almost 


unholy   glow   of 


that    Blynn 
satisfaction. 

"  I  did  it  for  the  sheer  joy  of  the  thing,  George,"  he 
protested,  and  he  was  quite  honest  in  saying  so.  "It 
was  a  bully  diversion.  It  's  been  damned  dull  in  town 
for  the  past  few  weeks.  I  needed  the  exercise." 

"Be  that  as  it  may,  it  's  more  than  probable  that  you 
saved  my  life.  No  telling  what  they  might  have  done 
to  me.  I  '11  not  forget  it,  old  fellow." 

"I  'd  have  done  the  same  for  the  lowliest  bum  on 
the  streets,"  went  on  Sedgewick.  "To  be  perfectly 
candid,  as  I  look  back  on  it,  I  don't  understand  how 
I  happened  to  have  the  pluck  to  take  a  hand  in  the 
affair.  I  did  n't  know  that  I  had  so  much  nerve." 

"Take  my  advice:  don't  do  it  again,"  said  Penning- 
ton.  "A  bullet  is  a  sure  cure  for  courage.  You  came 
near  to  getting  your  medicine,  too." 

They  were  closer  and  better  friends  than  ever.  Pen- 
nington  never  tired  of  paying  tribute  to  this  new  and 
almost  sensational  quality  that  had  cropped  out  in  the 
make-up  of  the  young  trifler.  The  city  rang  with  stories 
of  his  courage  ;  he  took  on  a  fresh  atmosphere  of  interest  ; 
his  world  loved  a  hero  quite  as  much  as  it  loved  a  lover. 

For  nine  days  Blynn  was  the  most  talked-of  and  the 
most  talked-to  young  man  in  the  city.  Worshippers  of 
the  opposite  sex  fairly  deluged  him  with  attentions.  He 
had  the  good  sense  to  accept  adulation  with  a  quaint 
modesty  that  made  his  achievements  stand  out  more 
boldly  by  contrast. 


[78] 

Bessie  Carnahan  was  quite  ready  to  run  away  with 
him  at  any  time,  and  she  was  not  alone  in  that  respect. 

Before  the  end  of  a  week,  Pennington  had  bought 
from  his  friend  something  like  a  hundred  thousand 
shares  in  the  vague  copper  mining  bonanza  he  was  pro 
moting  in  behalf  of  a  newly  organised  company  that 
promised  much  for  little.  Also,  the  accommodating  Mr. 
Blynn  managed  to  "let  him  in"  on  several  fine  tips 
from  the  stock  exchange. 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that  Sedgewick  Blynn  suddenly 
paid  up  all  of  his  bills  about  town,  and  re-established 
his  credit  by  showing  a  neat  balance  in  the  banks.  He 
lived  hard  on  easy  money,  and  his  conscience  gave  him 
no  manner  of  uneasiness. 

Pennington  was  rich  and  was  able  to  take  his  losses 
with  a  sturdy  indifference  that  surprised  even  the  opti 
mistic  Blynn,  who  heroically  undertook  to  shoulder  the 
blame  for  having  drawn  him  into  certain  unfortunate 
speculations.  He  openly  deplored  the  fact  that  he  had 
already  spent  his  own  miserable  commission. 


IW 


^j-L>^    tzL^^--^^,/&\r' 
__   z^^      *V  }/-> 

^ 


S»=^^ 


GHAPTER  V 

A   WEEK-END 

HIS  rather  imposing  summer  drew  toward  an 
end.  Week-end  jaunts  to  the  country  places 
were  fewer;  people  were  beginning  to  straggle 
back  to  the  city  from  all  parts  of  the  big  world.  He 
had  lived  off  the  fat  of  his  adventure  with  the  bandits; 
he  had  prospered  snugly  in  the  traffic  for  which  he  was 
best  qualified,  —  pleasure.  Every  one  had  been  nicer  to 
him  than  ever  before;  thus  he  throve  on  kindness  and 
the  warm  things  of  life.  He  was  not  the  kind  who  would 
endure  the  cold,  nor  could  he  bear  the  vista  when  it  is 
bleak  and  grey.  Rose-tinted  glasses  were  constantly 
between  him  and  his  view  of  life,  and  with  rose-tinted 
glasses  one  may  always  temper  the  ugliness  that  abounds. 
The  affair  with  Miss  Carnahan  had  reached  the  acute 
stage.  Plans  for  an  elopement  had  passed  the  point 
where  they  ceased  to  be  trivial  and  infantile.  The 
spoiled,  vain,  headstrong  girl  was  easily  moved  by  the 
romantic  picture  he  knew  so  well  how  to  draw.  She 
reveled  in  the  prospect  of  a  real  love  match;  her  little 
soul  was  full  of  silly  cravings  for  an  adventurous  honey 
moon.  To  run  away  with  the  most  popular  beau  in 
town!  To  be  published  broadcast  as  the  beautiful 


s 


-OT 


^-^§! 


0*0 


2$aj 


>*?*! 

6« 


[8o] 

heroine  of  a  real  love  story !  To  be  the  one  person 
most  talked  about  during  the  season  to  come !  It  would 
be  much  nicer  than  getting  married  at  home;  for  it  is 
quite  certain  that  she  had  no  doubts  as  to  the  tracta- 
bility  of  her  parent,  even  though  he  may  have  been 
opposed  to  Sedgewick  Blynn  from  the  beginning.  Sedge- 
wick  was  not  slow  to  take  advantage  of  this  romantic, 
though  somewhat  petulant,  way  of  looking  at  a  situation 
which  he  understood  much  better  than  she. 

He  realised  that  a  secret  marriage  was  the  only  one 
in  which  he  could  participate  if  he  aimed  so  high  as  this. 

Still,  he  found  it  very  hard  to  forget  the  soft  blue  eyes 
and  piquant  face  of  Beatrice  Gray.  She  was  a  dear! 
And  she  loved  him,  he  knew.  Alas,  how  bitterly  inade 
quate  is  the  law  of  choice :  Beatrice  Gray  was  quite  as 
poor  as  Bessie  was  rich.  He  easily  persuaded  himself 
into  believing  that  there  was  no  real  peril  in  seeing 
Beatrice  quite  frequently,  in  a  way;  he  was  perfectly 
sure  of  himself;  besides,  she  would  get  over  it  as  all 
girls  do.  What  if  she  did  seem  to  resent  his  friendship 
for  Bessie  Carnahan  ?  It  was  quite  natural  that  she 
should  be  jealous.  A  young  girl's  prerogative  !  Pooh  ! 

Bessie  Carnahan  refused  point  blank  to  run  away 
with  him  until  everybody  was  back  in  town  for  the 
season.  That  meant  November.  So  it  was  decided  that 
the  flight  should  not  be  taken  until  just  before  the 
Charity  Ball,  a  most  propitious  period  in  the  season's 
calendar. 

Accordingly  he  laid  his  plans.     Pennington  took  on  a 


eft 


[8i] 

fresh  block  of  stock  in  a  Southern  railway  project,  and 
two  of  his  friends  followed  his  example  without  con 
sulting  him  beforehand.  Sedgewick  coolly  set  aside  the 
bulk  of  his  commissions  for  the  great  day  to  come. 
Business  was  picking  up,  he  told  his  mother  and  sisters. 

To  their  amazement  and  joy,  he  paid  the  doctor's 
account  and  gave  his  mother  a  hundred-dollar  bill  be 
sides.  The  old  lady  was  pleased  beyond  reason.  She 
confidently  proclaimed  to  the  sisters  that  he  was  just 
beginning  to  show  what  he  really  was  made  of.  "From 
now  on,"  was  her  serene  declaration.  She  knew  that  in 
time  he  would  repay  all  of  the  money  he  had  borrowed 
from  her  for  his  business.  They  would  not  have  to 
skimp  to  make  both  ends  meet  as  they  had  been  doing 
for  the  past  six  months.  No;  she  had  not  cast  her  bread 
upon  still  waters.  It  would  be  driven  back  to  her  by 
the  tide  of  fortune.  The  few  thousands  he  had  invested 
for  her,  on  the  advice  of  that  astute  financier,  James 
Carnahan,  would  bring  back  a  harvest  of  golden  fruit. 
Ah,  how  good  it  was  that  her  son  could  go  to  the  great 
James  Carnahan  for  counsel  and  advice ! 

The  old  lady  was  failing  in  health  —  so  rapidly  that 
even  Sedgewick  could  see  the  changes  when  he  made 
his  brief,  infrequent  visits  to  the  place  in  Lombard 
Avenue.  She  had  a  cough,  and  there  was  a  frail  look 
about  her  that  shocked  him  more  and  more  as  the  weeks 
went  by.  Somehow  she  clung  to  him  with  a  firmer 
clasp  as  her  hands  lost  their  vigour  and  strength.  He 
could  feel  something  new  and  strange  and  pitiful  in  the 


Mtv*f^r  oi'. 


[82] 

touch  of  her  hand,  in  the  sweep  of  her  lips,  in  the  caress 
of  her  glance.  There  was  dawning  upon  him  that  which 
had  long  been  known  to  his  sisters :  she  was  nearing 
the  end. 

He  humbly  accepted  the  mild  advice  of  the  elder 
sister  and  began  to  spend  more  of  his  nights  at  home. 
Somehow,  in  his  heart,  he  was  afraid  of  what  was  coming 
to  them.  He  told  Pennington.  Pennington  put  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder  and  said  simply: 

"I  shall  never  forget  when  it  happened  to  me,  Sedge 
wick.  I  loved  my  mother,  just  as  you  love  yours.  Stick 
by  her  these  days,  my  boy.  You  '11  feel  happier  when 
it 's  all  over  if  you  do." 

Money  matters  grew  worse  at  the  Blynn  home,  but 
the  old  lady  was  imperative  in  her  commands  that  nothing 
should  be  said  about  them  to  Sedgewick.  She  would 
not  have  him  worried  and  harassed  now  that  he  was 
on  the  very  point  of  bounding  upward  to  success.  The 
least  discouragement,  she  maintained,  might  cause  him 
to  falter;  his  father  always  had  said  that  he  would 
have  been  a  millionaire  if  he  had  not  been  broken  in 
the  start.  The  bank  account  had  dwindled  to  almost 
nothing;  there  was  little  or  no  income  from  the  invest 
ments  that  Sedgewick  had  made;  the  dividends  that 
once  had  come  to  them  from  good  securities  seemed 
now  to  have  ceased  altogether.  The  old  lady  would 
not  have  him  to  know  that  she  had  sacrificed  practi 
cally  all  of  the  good  investments  in  order  to  fall  in  with 
his  splendid  schemes  for  advancement.  It  is  doubtful 


Xi 


if  this  sanguine,  calloused  young  financier  ever  sensed 
the  fact  that  he  was  wiping  out  the  means  of  sustenance 
upon  which  his  mother  and  sisters  were  dependent.  He 
gave  no  thought  to  figures;  he  was  not  one  to  consider 
limitations. 

One  day  Mrs.  Blynn,  whose  trembling  fingers  had 
gone  over  the  waning  figures  a  hundred  times  in  these 
latter  months,  calmly  announced  to  her  daughters  that 
she  was  going  "over  town"  to  consult  with  Mr.  Carnahan 
about  the  investments  which  her  son  had  made  through 
him. 

"He  was  a  very  great  friend  of  your  father's,  my  dears," 
she  announced,  "and  I  am  sure  he  will  give  me  a  little 
of  his  time,  for  his  sake,  if  no  other.  Don't  argue,  Hettie. 
I  am  going.  I  must  see  just  what  he  thinks  of  the  invest 
ments  as  they  are  to-day.  No  doubt  they  were  good 
when  he  advised  Sedgewick  to  put  the  money  into  them, 
but  —  but  one  can  never  tell  what  may  happen  in  the 
stock  market.  Don't  say  anything  to  Sedgewick.  It 
would  annoy  him  terribly  if  he  knew  that  I  had  done 
such  a  thing.  He'd  —  he'd  think  I  did  not  believe  in 
him." 

And  so  the  mother  of  Sedgewick  Blynn  went  to  the 
offices  of  the  great  James  Carnahan  to  ask  about  the  few 
paltry,  miserable  thousands  that  had  been  introduced 
into  the  august  company  of  millions  !  Colonel  Carnahan  \ 
received  her  as  he  should  have  received  the  widow  of  a 
dear  and  old-time  friend.  She  had  not  been  mistaken 
in  predicting  the  welcome  beforehand. 


[84] 

The  old  lady  scarcely  had  begun  her  timid,  faltering 
remarks,  when  he  suddenly  interrupted  her  to  ask  his 
secretary  and  his  stenographer  to  withdraw  from  the 
room.  He  closed  the  door  after  them  himself.  Then  he 
heard  what  she  had  to  say  of  the  investments  Sedgewick 
had  made  at  his  suggestion ! 

October  saw  Sedgewick  rampant  in  multiplying  duties; 
he  was  manager  of  the  open-air  horse  show,  director  of 
the  tennis  tourney,  ringmaster  in  the  amateur  circus, 
and  chairman  of  the  board  of  governors  for  the  Rose 
Cotillion  —  the  smartest  ball  of  each  succeeding  season. 
If  he  noted  the  alarming  progress  of  his  mother's  illness, 
he  lost  sight  of  it  readily  in  contemplation  of  the  renewed 
social  activities,  to  say  nothing  of  a  certain  stupendous 
affair  of  his  own. 

Next-door  neighbour  to  the  Blynns  in  Lombard  Avenue 
lived  a  Mr.  Thomas  O'Brien,  one  time  assistant  to  Sedge- 
wick's  father,  now  a  rheumatic  invalid  of  slender  means 
and  wide  philosophy.  The  Blynns  and  the  O'Briens 
were  friendly  neighbours  of  long  standing.  Kate  O'Brien, 
on  whom  poverty  sat  lightly,  for  she  had  never  known 
affluence,  was  now  the  sole  support  of  the  invalid  father. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl  of  twenty-five  or  thereabouts,  quick 
witted,  resourceful,  and  not  ashamed  to  wear  the  harness 
that  chafes  the  sons  of  Martha.  Since  early  girlhood  she 
had  toiled  with  the  army  of  shop-girls  who  daily  stream 
into  and  out  of  the  vast  recesses  of  trade,  cheerfully 
battling  her  way  up  through  the  thorniest  paths  until 


^VT 

?-ibw  > 

*~S>     ^DSai^^k-^.     S3 


[85] 


to-day  she  was  an  autocrat  where  real  autocrats  abound 
—  m  the  dressmaking  department  of  a  huge  and  fash 
ionable  shop  known  to  all  the  world  of  woman.  An 
autocrat  was  she,  for  she  was  now  the  head  of  that 
department,  and  what  woman  is  there  who  can  or  will 
dispute  the  claim  I  make  ? 

Big  hearted,  tender,  and  thoughtful  was  this  fine  Irish 
girl  who  dealt  serenely  with  the  great  ladies  of  the  land 
and  yet  ate  her  lunch  with  the  lowliest  spinner  in  that 
castle  of  avarice.  She  earned  big  wages  but  she  put  on 
no  airs;  she  was  one  of  a  huge  army  and  she  lived  in  the 
camps  that  fortune  had  pitched  for  them  all.  What  was 
good  for  them  was  also  good  enough  for  her. 

Back  in  the  tender  days  of  childhood  she  had  come 
to  look  upon  Sedgewick  Blynn  as  her  lord  and  knight. 
Time  and  opportunity  had  taken  him  to  a  higher  plane. 
She  remained  where  she  was,  content  with  her  lot,  while 
the  boyish  sweetheart  soared  far  beyond  her  small  horizon 
into  a  world  which  she  could  never  hope  to  see  or  touch. 

But  now,  in  these  closing  days  of  summer,  when  he 
was  more  often  at  home  than  before,  she  saw  him  again 
with  almost  daily  regularity.  Indeed,  of  late,  it  was  no 
uncommon  thing  for  them  to  catch  the  same  street  car 
to  the  city  on  the  mornings  when  he  was  at  home.  Sedge- 
wick  Blynn  realised  that  he  was  miles  above  her  in  the 
social  strata,  but  he  was  not  above  admiring  the  beauty, 
and  wit,  and  personal  charm  of  his  old-time  comride, 
her  position  notwithstanding.  For,  after  all,  waS  she 
not  rather  a  noted  beauty,  even  in  the  eyes  of  thos*  bna 


[86] 

friends  of  his  ?  A  bit  too  dashing,  perhaps,  and  a  shade 
too  striking  in  voice  and  manner,  with  a  laugh  that  was 
vulgarly  merry,  she  was,  one  might  say,  good  form  in  a 
sense  and  very  bad  form  in  another. 

Sedgewick  found  no  little  pleasure  in  sitting  with  her 
on  these  street  car  journeys,  but  he  was  quite  careful 
to  get  off  the  car  a  block  or  two  before  her  corner  was 
reached  in  the  down-town  district.  It  would  never  do 
to  be  seen  with  the  head  dressmaker  at  Swan's.  Perhaps 
she  understood  why  it  was  that  he  got  off  the  car  at  one 
corner  when  he  should  have  gone  on  to  the  next;  but  if 
she  did,  she  had  the  tact  to  make  no  comment  either  to 
him  or  to  herself.  She  went  sunnily  along  her  way, 
avoiding  the  shadows  and  looking  no  higher  than  the 
hedge  that  lined  her  narrow  lane.  She  understood  quite 
well  that  this  young  sprig  of  gentility  could  not  afford 
to  be  seen  with  her,  and,  by  quite  another  token,  she 
realised  that  she  could  not  afford  to  be  seen  with  him. 
The  situation  balanced  quite  nicely,  even  though  the 
conditions  were  not  weighed  in  the  same  scales. 

There  may  have  been  times  when  it  occurred  to  Sedge- 
wick  Blynn  that  he  was  somewhat  of  a  prig;  but,  after  all, 
wise  as  she  was,  she  was  a  shop-girl  and  —  well,  he  had 
made  it  a  point  to  be  circumspect  in  regard  to  chorus 
girls  and  shop-girls,  though  why  he  should  put  them  in 
the  sane  category  he  never  stopped  to  inquire. 

At  any  rate,  he  felt  warmly  toward  this  genuinely  fine 
friend;  down  in  his  heart  there  was  an  esteem  for  her 
that  he  could  never  have  recognised  as  springing  from 


[87] 

him  if  it  had  suddenly  made  itself  actually  manifest.  He 
only  knew  that  she  was  a  good  sort,  a  jolly  girl,  an  inti 
mate  scoffer,  and,  moreover,  a  devoted,  life-long  friend 
to  his  mother.  And  so,  he  was  content  to  ride  down-town 
with  his  next-door  neighbour,  deriving  no  end  of  pleasure 
in  recounting  to  her  the  doings  of  the  select  upper  world. 
She  was  properly  impressed  by  the  part  he  played  in  all 
that  the  smart  set  undertook.  It  delighted  him  to  find 
that  she  saw  him  in  the  light  he  loved  so  well.  Strangely 
enough,  Kate  O'Brien  did  not  think  of  him  as  a  prig, 
even  though  he  got  off*  the  car  at  the  corner  above. 

But  the  clouds  were  beginning  to  form  beyond  Sedge 
wick  Blynn's  horizon;  they  were  little  clouds,  but  they 
were  coming  up  swiftly  on  the  wings  of  disaster  and  he 
was  ill-prepared  for  the  storm. 

George  Pennington's  friends  were  beginning  to  trouble 
themselves  about  his  affairs,  slyly  at  first  but  more  per 
sistently  as  the  feeling  developed  that  he  was  being 
imposed  upon  by  Sedgewick  Blynn.  Blynn's  transactions 
had  been  uniformly  disastrous,  and  there  was  a  well- 
defined  impression  that  he  had  deliberately  bilked  his 
friend.  Pennington  calmly  laughed  at  the  warnings 
and  informed  his  friends  that  he  quite  well  knew  where 
he  stood. 

The  ugly  stories  spread  from  the  club  into  the  city 
with  sly  insistence;  it  was  not  long  before  every  one 
was  saying  hard  things  behind  the  back  of  Sedgewick 
Blynn. 

Moreover,   he  was   paying  the   penalty   imposed   by 


K? 


[88] 

women  scorned.  Mrs.  Johnny  Gordon  was  one  of  the 
first  to  "turn  up  her  nose"  when  his  name  was  men 
tioned  in  her  hearing.  Mrs.  Thorpe,  who  had  set  him 
down  in  the  charmed  circle,  long  had  been  given  to 
spiteful  sarcasm,  and  the  unconventional  Mrs.  Field 
ing  did  not  mince  matters  in  expressing  her  views  of 
cads  as  she  found  them.  Altogether,  Sedgewick's  star 
was  on  the  wane,  if  one  looked  at  it  from  a  general  and 
not  a  specified  point  of  view. 

George  Pennington's  sister  at  last  spoke  plainly  to 
her  brother.  She  told  him  that  Blynn  was  systematically 
swindling  him. 

"Everybody  says  so,  George,  so  there  must  be  some- 

f~f~'  if^t^f^ 

thing  in  it.  You  know  you  are  such  a  careless  creature 
when  it  comes  to  money  matters.  He  takes  advantage 
of  your  friendship,  George,  and  he's  actually  living  off 
of  what  you  drop  into  those  brainless  schemes  of  his. 
It's  rotten  low,  George,  —  worse  than  thievery.  I  have 
some  respect  for  a  thief,  but  for  a  man  like  Sedgewick 
Blynn  —  bah,  how  I  detest  a  cheat ! " 

Pennington  smiled  gravely.  They  were  sitting  on  the 
balcony  of  the  Gordon  home,  awaiting  the  "Bridgers" 
who  were  coming  in  after  dinner,  whereupon  Pennington 
was  to  depart.  He  would  not  play  Bridge  for  the  excel 
lent  reason  that  the  habit  was  bound  to  draw  him  into 
contact  with  that  hopeless  and  multitudinous  class  of 
humanity  which  plays  the  game  for  prizes  and  not  for 
profit  —  the  class  which  laughs  when  it  revokes. 

"My   dear   Judith,"   he   answered,   "I   thought  you 


9*? 

B2. 


seemed  to  be  very  much  attached  to  Sedgewick  a  month 
or  two  back.    Why  this  sudden  aversion  ?" 

She  met  his  gaze  steadily.  "I  was  fond  of  him,  George. 
He  amused  me  and  I  had  not  yet  heard  these  tales  about 
his  dealings  with  you.  I'll  confess  to  his  courage,  if 
that's  what  you  are  banking  on.  He's  proved  himself - 
physically.  I've  had  him  here  frequently  and  made  a 
good  deal  of  him,  as  you  know.  Suddenly  he  began  to 
treat  us  as  if  we  were  clods  in  his  path.  I  call  that  the 
attitude  of  an  ingrate.  Don't  you  ?" 

"It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  I  gave  him  a  little 
lecture  a  month  or  two  ago,"  said  he  irrelevantly. 

"A  lecture?" 

"Yes  —  on  the  pernicious  influence  of  delightful 
frauds." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"A  complex  way  of  designating  the  young  married 
woman  evil  that  threatens  the  youth  of  our  land." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  staring  hard  at  him.    "I  see." 

"I  think  he  took  it  rather  seriously." 

"I  dare  say."  She  smiled  faintly,  but  her  heart  was 
bitter.  "He  takes  everything  you  can  afford  to  give 
him.  Advice  is  so  cheap,  however,  that  I  don't  see  how 
he  came  to  accept  it.  He  deals  with  luxuries.  I  won 
der  —  "  she  hesitated,  her  eyes  narrowing  —  "I  wonder, 
George,  if  you  were  good  enough  to  include  me  in  your 
assortment  of  delightful  frauds." 

"Would  you  be  disappointed  and  hurt  if  I  should 
answer  no  ? " 


\UJJLi 


s\  CSIY 


[90] 

"On  the  contrary,  I'd  be  pleased." 

"Then,  you  are  a  delightful  fraud,"  he  said,  with  the 
laugh  that  she  loved.  "All  of  which  takes  us  back  to 
Sedgewick  Blynn.  He's  in  love  with  Bessie  Carnahan 
and  she  with  him.  I  was  thinking  of  her  as  well  as  of 
him.  Do  you  see?" 

"Quite  clearly.  Being  a  fine  old  bachelor,  you  under 
stand  the  philanthropy  of  love.  Splendid  !  But,  let  me 
say  this  to  you,  my  dear  brother;  if  you  know  as  little 
about  Sedgewick  Blynn's  love  affairs  as  you  do  about 
his  business  transactions,  I  am  not  surprised  that  you 
can't  see  through  a  stone  wall."  With  this  frank  com 
ment  on  his  stupidity,  she  left  him  and  went  down  the 
steps  to  greet  some  new  arrivals.  As  soon  as  her  back 
was  turned,  George  Pennington's  face  resumed  the  grave 
and  troubled  look  it  had  worn  of  late;  the  taunting 
smile  left  his  lips  and  a  hard  line  crept  in  at  the 
corners. 

The  Carnahans  were  coming  down  from  their  country 
place  in  the  hills.  A  final  week-end  party  was  arranged. 
Sedgewick  Blynn  and  George  Pennington  were  asked 
among  others,  and  Tuesday  was  to  see  the  return  of 
every  one  to  the  city. 

Blynn  fought  a  valiant  battle  with  himself  when  the 
time  came  to  leave  for  the  hills,  and  self  won.  His  mother 
was  now  critically  ill;  it  was  but  a  matter  of  days,  if 
not  hours,  until  the  end.  The  doctor  brutally  informed 
him  that  she  might  live  a  week  or  a  day  —  he  could  not 
tell.  Pinned  down  to  it,  the  medical  man  admitted  that 


[9'J 

she  was  more  than  likely  to  live  a  week  or  two,  but  he 
advised  the  son  to  be  within  reach  at  all  times.  Sedge- 
wick  considered  him  a  heartless  brute.  The  two  sisters 
and  Kate  O'Brien  took  turns  watching  at  the  bedside 
of  the  now  helpless  old  lady,  and  Sedgewick  spent  many 
miserable  hours  about  the  house. 

Up  to  the  last  minute,  so  to  speak,  he  was  firm  in  his 
resolve  to  remain  in  town,  anticipating  the  crisis.  But 
in  this  very  last  minute,  the  desire  to  join  the  gay  set  in 
the  country  overcame  what  he  now  called  his  silly  fears 
and  he  announced  his  intention  to  run  out  of  town  over 
Saturday  and  Sunday.  He  sought  to  reconcile  his  almost 
stupefied  sisters  by  demeaning  the  ability  of  the  doctor; 
he  laughed  at  the  assertion  that  the  end  was  as  "near  as 
all  that."  Any  one  could  see  that  she  was  stronger  than 
she  had  been  in  days.  It  was  all  nonsense  about  death 
being  so  near  at  hand. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  packed  his  bag  on  the  morning  of 
departure,  he  sullenly  asked  Miss  Hettie  to  telegraph 
him  if  there  should  be  a  sudden  change  for  the  worse. 
No,  he  did  not  expect  it,  of  course,  but  —  it  was  best  to 
be  prepared. 

Miss  Hettie  flared  up  and  wrathfully  announced  that 
she  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him.  As  he 
left  the  house  to  catch  the  car,  his  face  set  and  his  heart 
at  war  with  his  brain,  he  met  Kate  O'Brien.  She  was 
on  her  way  to  work. 

"Telegraph  me,  Kate,  please,  if — if  she  should  get 
worse?"  he  pleaded,  even  humbly. 


[92] 


course  I  will,  Sedge,"  she  said.  "You're  not  — 
not  going  away  now  ?" 

"Just  for  a  day  or  two.  Can't  get  out  of  it.  Mother's 
all  right.  Yoa  will  telegraph  me  if — you  see,  the  girls 
are  all  upset  and  I  can't  depend  on  them." 

"I '11  telegraph  if —  "  she  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
went  on  —  "if  it's  very  bad." 

"That's  it,"  he  said.     "Thanks." 

It  must  be  said  that  his  thoughts  were  not  happy  or 
noble  ones  as  he  sat  in  the  chair  car  which  whisked  him 
toward  the  hills  that  afternoon.  One  thing  came  con 
stantly  to  his  mind  and  he  could  not  fight  it  off.  It  was 
always  up  and  at  him  like  a  persistent  ghost.  It  was 
the  recollection  of  a  night  at  the  horse  show,  a  night 
when  he  had  taken  his  mother  and  sisters  to  see  the  world 
of  fashion.  Somehow  it  was  hurting  him  at  this  late  day 
to  remember  that  he  had  found  seats  in  the  gallery,  far 
from  the  boxes  of  his  fashionable  friends,  and  that  he 
had  entered  almost  stealthily  by  the  doors  farthest  from 
the  carriage  way.  It  was  coming  back  to  him  with  ugly 
plainness  that  he  had  shrunk  far  down  in  his  seat  and 
that  he  had  been  ashamed  of  the  meanly  clad  women 
who  sat  beside  him  in  that  gay  throng.  To-day  he  was 
ashamed  of  himself.  With  a  sharp  pain  in  his  heart,  he 
recalled  his  mother's  simple,  kindly  observation  that  his 
friends  apparently  knew  him  by  the  company  he  kept, 
adding  the  good-humoured  lament  that  his  fine  ladies 
might  well  be  expected  to  snub  him  if  they  saw  him  with 
such  unfashionable  creatures.  • 


_/ 
•*x 


-**fr£          <ft 

[93] 

And  he  had  been  mean  enough  to  reply:  "Don't  let 
it  worry  you,  mother.  I  don't  care  a  hang." 

To  his  surprise  and  dismay,  he  found  that  Beatrice 
Gray  was  one  of  the  merry  house  party.  He  was  con 
siderably  upset  and  annoyed  by  the  discovery.  What' 
could  Bessie  Carnahan  be  thinking  of?  \ 

There  was  to  be  a  dance  that  night,  guests  coming 
over  from  the  other  places  in  the  hills.  He  knew  these 
informal  dances  to  be  great  fun;  his  spirits  flew  upward 
and  he  was  himself  again  after  a  most  trying  day.  He 
resolutely  threw  off  the  shadow  of  anxiety  that  had  come 
all  the  way  up  from  town  with  him.  Why  look  at  the 
dark  side  of  life  when  there  was  a  chance  to  see  the 
bright  ?  It  was  a  philosophy  that  his  mother  herself 
had  taught,  so  why  not  put  it  into  practice  at  this 
very  time  ?  He  had  his  mother's  own  teachings  behind 
him. 

Nevertheless,  he  found  himself  constantly  beseiged  by 
the  fear  that  a  telegram  might  come  at  any  moment. 

The  railway  station  and  telegraph  office  was  not  far 
from  the  Carnahan  place.  Twice  during  the  evening  a 
messenger  came  over  with  despatches.  Each  time  his 
heart  seemed  to  stand  still  with  apprehension.  But  they 
were  not  for  him.  One  came  to  George  Pennington  and 
the  other  to  James  Carnahan. 

The  former,  gloomy  faced  and  silent,  was  standing  on 
the  porch  when  Carnahan  came  out  of  the  little  room 
which  he  called  his  own.  The  financier  was  in  fine 
humour. 


[94] 

OO  J  r  I  )r 

"Good  news,  Colonel?"    asked   Pennington,  putting 

a  bright  look  on  his  face. 

"Splendid.  The  Henly  Water  and  Power  Company 
has  gone  to  smash.  That  leaves  the  field  utterly  in  our 
hands.  I  predicted  it  six  weeks  ago."  Blynn  had  come 
up  at  the  beginning  of  the  conversation.  "You  remem- 

v  \!\  i  V^  v*  ( 

ber,  Blynn,  that  I  told  you  not  to  dabble  in  Henly  stock. 
We  had  them  going  from  the  first.  'Gad,  the  stock 
holders  in  that  concern  won't  get  three  cents  on  the 
dollar.  They've  partly  protected  the  bonds,  that's  all." 

Pennington's  cold,  keen  gaze  fell  upon  Sedgewick 
Blynn,  and  rested  there.  The  young  man  flushed  but 
manfully  arose  to  the  occasion. 

"I'm  sorry,  George,"  he  said.  "You  don't  blame 
me,  do  you  ?  That  stock  looked  as  good  as  gold  itself." 

"It's  all  right,  Sedgewick,"  was  all  the  other  said. 
Blynn  laughed  uneasily  as  he  walked  away.  Alone  he 
sauntered  toward  the  distant  gates,  a  prey  not  to  con 
trition  but  to  annoyance.  As  he  neared  the  gates,  a 
messenger  from  the  telegraph  office  entered  the  grounds, 
and,  coming  directly  up  to  him,  asked  if  a  Mr.  Blynn 
was  staying  there. 

Blynn's  heart  turned  icy  cold. 

"Yes,"  he  said  numbly. 

"Got  a  telegram  for  him.    Where  '11  I  find  him  ?" 

"I'll  sign  for  it.     He's  busy." 

The  boy  promptly  surrendered  the  envelope  and  went 
his  way. 

Sedgewick    deliberately   stuck   the   message   into   his 


[95] 


I 


pocket,  the  envelope  unbroken,  and,  pulling  his  nerves 
together,  started  toward  the  house. 

Something  told  him  clearly  what  the  message  contained 
but  he  decided  that  he  would  not  read  it  until  the  nex* 


morning 


No  one  would  know ! 


'•^Ff     $k_JfiT* 
fr  jcnwrr-i 
4ii^J^  L-^i 


& 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    INCONSIDERATE   WORLD 

CARNAHAN  had  a  talk  with  his  daughter  late  in 
the  night.  She  had  been  with  Sedgewick  Blynn 
all  evening,  quite  to  the  exclusion  of  other 
guests.  Her  father  was  not  slow  to  perceive  the  effect 
this  produced  on  little  Beatrice  Gray,  for  whom  he  had 
a  decided  fondness.  He  resolved  to  speak  plainly  and 
finally  on  the  subject  of  Sedgewick  Blynn. 

They  were  alone  in  his  smoking-room,  whither  she 
always  went  to  say  good-night,  or  on  the  even  more 
frequent  business  of  wheedling  extravagant  promises  out 
of  him. 

"You  have  no  right,  father,  to  say  such  horrid  things 
about  Sedgewick  and  me,"  she  cried  after  his  first 
vigorous  remarks  on  the  unseemly  conduct  of  the  two 
young  people. 

"Right,  my  dear  child?"  he  queried,  raising  his  eye 
brows  in  a  way  that  seemed  strangely  new  to  her.  "If 
I  have  n't,  then  who  has  ?  And  now  that  I  'm  at  it,  I  shall 
no  longer  mince  matters  in  regard  to  Blynn.  Sit  down, 
Bessie.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  sha'n't  scold  any  more  than 
I  have  to,  but  we'll  have  it  out  before  we  go  to  bed." 


[97] 

. 

She  sat  down  opposite  him,  staring  at  his  set  face  with 
wide,  unbelieving  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  what  there  really  is  between  you  and 
Sedgewick.  You've  never  told  me.  In  any  event,  it's 
puppy  love  on  your  side  —  perhaps,  it's  some  sort  of 
infatuation.  With  him,  it's  nothing  more  or  less  than  a 
scheme  to  drop  into  a  warm,  luxurious  berth  for  the  rest 
of  his  life.  He's  the  sort  of  man  who  would  induce  a 
girl  to  elope  with  him.  Don't  interrupt,  please.  He 
knows  that  no  sensible,  self-respecting  father  would  ever 
give  a  daughter  into  his  hands.  It  would  be  criminal 
on  the  part  —  " 

"Oh,  papa!    You  don't  know  what  you're  saying!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  Your  dad  is  no  fool,  my  child.  I  know 
men  of  his  stamp  as  I  know  my  alphabet.  The  world  is 
full  of  'em.  Butterfly  men !  'Gad,  what  useless  things 
they  are!  Pretty  to  look  at,  that's  all.  Sedgewick  is 
the  king  of  his  kind.  Perhaps  you  think  you  are  in  love 
with  him ;  perhaps  you  feel  that  you  are  engaged  to  him. 
It's  barely  possible  that  you  have  had  some  sort  of  a 
dream  that  I'll  permit  you  to  marry  him.  But  it's  out 
of  the  question.  I  'd  sooner  see  you  married  to  a  street 
sweeper  than  to  Sedgewick  Blynn.  The  sweeper  at 
least  is  a  toiler  and  he's  usually  honest.  That's  more 
than  can  be  said  for  Sedgewick  Blynn." 

"Father,  you  don't  mean  that!" 

"Decidedly,  I  do.     He's  crooked.     Shall  I  tell  you 

some  of  the  things  I  know  about  him  ?" 

0 

She  looked  dumbly  into  his  eyes.     Somehow  she 
~*~.~*  7 


ea 

[98] 

beginning  to  feel  as  she  did  when  awakening  from  a 
sound  sleep  to  find  that  her  dream  and  the  real  world 
were  strangely  confused  one  with  the  other. 

He  went  on.  "  In  the  first  place,  unquestionably  he 
has  deceived  and  robbed  George  Pennington.  Just  a 
moment,  please !  I  know,  and  so  does  George  Penning 
ton.  He  likes  the  fellow  and  he  won't  say  a  word.  He's 
rich  and  his  losses  won't  hurt  him  in  that  way.  But  he's 
suffering  because  of  the  duplicity  of  his  trusted  friend. 
Blynn  has  invested  money  for  him  from  time  to  time, 
always  in  uncertain  schemes  from  which  he  derived  large 
commissions  as  a  promoter,  so  to  speak.  One  instance : 
he  sold  Pennington  fifty  thousand  shares  of  stock  that 
had  been  given  to  him  personally  on  condition  that  he 
placed  another  ten  thousand  at  a  given  price.  They 
were  in  a  zinc  and  copper  mining  concern  that  was 
practically  out  of  existence  when  Pennington  bought  a 
hundred  thousand  shares  at  thirty  cents  each  —  thirty 
thousand  dollars  for  a  bunch  of  worthless  paper  that 
had  lain  in  Blynn's  safe  for  months  —  of  which  your 
friend  Mr.  Blynn  got  fifteen  thousand  dollars  in  cold 
cash.  He  knew  when  he  sold  these  shares  to  George 
Pennington  that  the  whole  lot  of  them  were  not  worth 
thirty  cents.  That's  but  one  instance.  I  can  almost 
swear  that  he  has  cost  Pennington  nearly  a  quarter  of 
a  million  dollars  in  the  past  two  or  three  months.  If 
you  should  ask  Pennington  whether  he  ever  expects  to 
trust  Blynn  with  another  commission,  I  think  you  'd 
see  him  shake  his  head. 


^i^^^^ri 


[99  ] 

"But  all  this  is  as  nothing  compared  to  one  other 
transaction  of  his.  I  don't  like  to  tell  it  to  you,  my  child, 
but  I  must.  The  time  for  soft  words  has  passed.  You'll 
be  crying  in  a  minute,  but  I  can't  help  it.  This  scamp 
has  deliberately  pilfered  from  his  own  mother!" 

"No,  no!     He  adores  her!" 

"I'll  tell  you  the  story.  A  few  weeks  ago  Mrs.  Blynn 
came  to  my  office  to  see  me.  I  knew  her  husband  and 
loved  him  in  the  old  days,  and  I  also  knew  her.  The 
dear  old  lady,  scarcely  able  to  walk,  came  to  see  me 
about  some  investments  Sedgewick  had  made  for  her  — 
eight  or  ten  thousand  dollars  in  all,  I  think.  She  was 
worried.  Investments  that  he  had  made  on  —  on  —  "  the 
old  man's  teeth  were  set  —  "on  my  advice,  do  you  see  ?  " 

"Then  you  —  I  mean,  he  was  not  altogether  to  blame," 
she  had  the  daring  to  say. 

His  eyes  snapped.  "But  as  I  had  never  given  him  a 
word  of  advice  in  my  life  and  knew  nothing  of  his  moth 
er's  investments,  you  can  hardly  say  that,  Bessie.  Plainly, 
my  dear,  he  lied  to  her.  He  sunk  her  little  fortune  in 
schemes  of  his  own  and  set  her  mind  at  rest  by  telling 
her  that  they  were  safe  because  /  was  behind  them. 
Now  do  you  see  ?  The  money  's  gone  —  utterly  lost  to 
her.  What's  more,  my  child,  this  despicable  friend  of 
yours  has  absolutely  impoverished  the  trusting  old  lady. 
That's  the  kind  of  an  adoring  son  he's  been." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  full  minute.  The  girl's  gaze  never 
left  her  father's  eyes.  She  knew  that  he  never  lied  to 
her. 


"He  may  have  been  perfectly  innocent  in  all  this,"  she 
murmured. 

"Not  perfectly  innocent,  for  he  told  her  that  I  advised 
him." 

"But  you  —  you  could  not  have  had  the  heart  to  ex- 

. 
pose  him  to  his  mother,  father,"  she  said,  her  lip  trembling 

"Are  you  pitying  him  or  his  mother?" 

"It's  all  so  very  sudden  —  so  shocking,"  she  answered, 
twisting  her  fingers  in  and  out. 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  blurted  out  enough  in  my  surprise 
to  convince  her  that  he  had  deceived  her.  I  shall  always 
regret  my  stupidity.  Good  God,  if  you  could  have  seen 
her  face  when  she  began  to  realise.  All  I  might  say  or 
do  after  that  unhappy  break  could  not  withdraw  the  iron 
that  had  gone  into  her  soul.  She  understood  fully  where 
she  had  only  suspected  before,  or  I  believe  she  half 
suspected  him.  Too  late  I  undertook  to  repair  the 
harm  I  had  done  —  " 

"The  harm  you  had  done!" 

"Yes  —  I  would  not  have  given  her  that  pain  for 
fifty  times  ten  thousand  dollars.  I  assumed  to  remember 
the  deal;  I  pleaded  guilty  to  rank  carelessness  —  I  did 
even  more  than  that.  I  assured  her  that  her  investments 
were  all  right." 

"You  did  that?" 

"Yes.  But  she  did  not  believe  me.  She  seemed  ten 
years  older  when  she  left  my  office.  There  was  not 
much  for  her  to  say,  but  she  thanked  me.  The  next 
day  I  had  my  secretary  write  her  a  palavering  letter  to 

•^^ -•     ** 

-^rT—  i, 


[ioi] 

say  that  her  stock  was  gilt  edged  and  that  I  would  be 
glad  to  buy  it  back  from  her  at  par.  Her  daughter 
answered  the  letter.  She  said  that  her  mother  was 
most  grateful,  but  that  she  preferred  to  keep  the  stock. 
You  must  understand,  my  child,  that  the  poor  old  lady 
knew  that  there  was  no  stock.  Is  n't  it  a  pretty  story  ? " 

"I  can't  believe  that  he  would  —  "  she  began,  horror 
in  her  eyes. 

"We'll  drop  his  business  affairs,"  said  her  father, 
drawing  a  long  breath,  "and  take  up  his  social  gambling." 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  her  face  brightening,  "you  can't  say 
anything  against  him  socially." 

"You've  heard  people  say  that  he  is  —  er  —  or  rather 
was,  carrying  on  rather  recklessly  with  certain  married 
women  —  I'll  mention  no  names.  Haven't  you  heard 
of  these  stories  ?  Be  quite  honest." 

"I've  heard  them,  of  course.  But,  goodness,  every 
young  man  does  that  sort  of  thing  nowadays,  unless  he's 
too  dreadfully  poky  to  live.  It's  quite  the  thing,"  she 
said,  with  conviction.  Her  father  looked  at  her  in  dull 
amazement. 

"Great  God!"  he  ejaculated.  "You  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  —  you  young  girls  look  upon  that  sort  of 
thing  with  your  eyes  wide  open  and  don't  even  blush  ? " 

"Pooh  !  If  we  blushed  every  time  we  had  the  chance, 
dad,  we'd  soon  look  like  birth-marks." 

"Good  Lord!"  he  gasped  again.  He  was  getting  a 
sharp  lesson  in  worldliness  and  he  did  n't  like  it.  For 
a  moment  he  stared  helplessly  and  then  mumbled: 


•f3_£ 


Ccv          ••- 


r         i 

L  J 

"You've  known  about  these  scandalous  affairs  all  the 
time  and  still  stand  out  for  him  ?  Well,  I  'm  —  I  'm 
damned !" 

But  she  was  looking  very  serious;  a  perplexed  frown 
had  succeeded  the  stare  of  distress.  "I  wouldn't  have 
thought  it  of  him.  He  has  always  talked  so  beautifully 
of  his  mother.  You  must  be  —  ' 

"I'll  bet  my  head  his  mother  does  n't  know  of  his  — 
of  the  affairs  you  condone.  But  never  mind  that.  I  see 
that  you're  not  even  shocked.  I  thought  you'd  be 
petrified.  Here's  something,  however,  that  may  bowl 
you  over,  my  charming  philosopher.  He's  engaged  to 
be  married  to  Beatrice  Gray." 

"He's  not!"  she  flared,  leaping  to  her  feet.  "I  know 
that  that  isn't  true!" 

"I  have  her  brother's  word  for  it." 

"Then  he  lied!  I  know  they're  not  engaged,"  she 
stormed. 

Her  father  understood  and  he  was  a  very  wise  man. 
Instead  of  pressing  the  point,  he  quietly  arose  and,  put 
ting  his  arm  about  her  waist,  led  her  toward  the  stairs. 

"It's  getting  late,  my  dear,  and  I  know  you'll  want 
to  talk  it  over  with  Beatrice.  I  think  he's  pulled  the 
wool  over  two  pairs  of  very  beautiful  eyes.  I  'd  have  it 
out  with  Beatrice  before  I  went  to  sleep,  if  I  were  you. 
You'll  both  feel  much  better.  And  then  you  can  both 
sympathise  with  him  in  the  morning." 

She  sobbed  spasmodically  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
her  cheeks  flaming,  rushed  frantically  up-stairs,  flying 


[io3] 

down  the  hall  to  Miss  Gray's  room.  Dashing  in  upon 
her  rival  in  this  pretty  contest,  she  plumped  herself  down 
upon  the  bed,  in  which  Beatrice  was  lazily  reading. 

"Are  you  engaged  to  Sedgewick  Blynn?"  she  de 
manded,  without  ceremony. 

Miss  Gray  dropped  her  book.    She  gasped. 

"I  mean  it!"  went  on  Bessie  sternly.  "I'm  trying  to 
find  out  something  about  him." 

"I  should  say  you  are!"    exclaimed  Beatrice. 

"Well,  are  you?"  insistently. 

"Not  just  at  present.     Are  you?" 

"Were  you  —  ever  ?" 

"I  asked:  Are  you?" 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out.  I  don't  know. 
I  thought  I  was." 

"I  thought  I  was,  too,  until  —  until  — 

"Until  when  ?  Speak  out !  I 'm  not  going  to  bite  your 
head  off." 

"Until  this  evening.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I 
broke  it  off  to-night.  I  hate  and  despise  him.  You  may 
have  him.  I  don't  want  him." 

"Oh,  thank  you  kindly,"  scoffed  Miss  Carnahan.  "I 
was  just  going  to  offer  him  to  you." 

"Indeed!" 

They  glared  at  each  other  for  a  moment  and  then 
burst  into  uncontrollable  laughter.  An  instant  later 
they  were  hysterically  kissing  one  another  and  thanking 
all  the  lucky  stars  in  the  universe  that  they  had  found  out 
the  truth  about  Sedgewick  Blynn.  Each  was  amazed 


•^ 

n 


to  find  that  there  were  no  heart  pangs,  after  all;  they 
spoke  of  Sedgewick  as  if  he  were  dead  and  buried.  They 
slept  better  that  night  than  they  had  slept  in  weeks. 
Sedgewick  Blynn  was  off  their  minds. 

He  did  not  sleep  well,  however.  He  could  not  take  his 
mind  from  the  telegram  which  remained  sealed  in  his 
pocket.  A  dreadful  oppression,  a  sense  of  utter  gloom 
came  over  him.  He  wished  now  that  he  had  read  it 
before  —  or,  more  than  that,  he  regretted  that  he  had 
left  home. 

Morning  came,  and  he  sallied  forth,  the  telegram  in 
his  pocket.  He  went  toward  the  gates,  ostensibly  to 
meet  the  messenger  boy  as  if  by  accident.  In  one  of  the 
driveways  he  came  upon  Bessie  Carnahan  and  Beatrice 
Gray,  who,  having  slept  together,  were  out  for  a  before 
breakfast  stroll  together. 

The  irrepressible  Miss  Carnahan  confronted  him,  her 
face  beaming  with  malicious  joy  in  contemplation  of  his 
coming  discomfiture. 

"Now,  here  we  are,   Sedgewick,"  she  said  sweetly. 

f 

"Two    pretty   girls    and    both    free.      Take   your   pick. 

Which  will  you  have?    A  brunette  or  a  blonde?" 

J 

He  gulped  and  looked  blankly  from  one  to  the  other. 
He  understood.  It  required  a  mighty  effort  of  the  will 
to  hold  himself  together,  but  he  succeeded.  Into  his 
face  came  a  depressed,  anxious  look;  his  eyes  seemed 
to  express  the  fear  that  consumed  him.  Even  in  this 
trying  moment  he  was  able  to  play  on  the  heart-strings 
of  those  who  would  have  tormented  him ;  he  deliberately 


v. 


HT 


^N 
Vi*! 


*^S»=*Z*£* 

[  105] 

turned  his  own  miserable  apprehensions  to  account, 
dropping  easily  into  the  centre  of  the  stage  as  any  vain 
glorious  actor  might  have  done.  He  said  nothing  until 
he  had  drawn  the  telegram  from  his  pocket.  His  hand 
trembled  as  he  passed  it  to  the  surprised  Miss  Carnahan. 

"It  just  came,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  to  open  it.  My 
mother  's  not  been  well.  She  was  much  better  when  I 
left  home.  Still  one  always  expects  bad  news.  Won't 
you  please  read  it  for  me  ?" 

Bessie  Carnahan's  smile  of  derision  vanished,  just  as 
he  had  planned  that  it  should.  Apprehension  and  pity 
succeeded  in  its  place;  she  experienced  a  sudden  sensa 
tion  of  regret  for  her  miserable  levity.  A  sober,  anxious 
look  also  crept  into  Beatrice  Gray's  eyes. 

The  girl  resolutely  tore  open  the  envelope  and  glanced 
at  the  message.  She  turned  deathly  pale  and  her  lip 
trembled;  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes;  impulsively  she 
thrust  the  missive  into  the  hands  of  Beatrice  Gray. 

"I  can't  —  oh,  I  can't  tell  him,"  she  cried  piteously. 
Sedgewick  Blynn  knew  then  that  the  worst  had  hap 
pened,  but,  despite  all  that,  a  thrill  of  exaltation  swept 
over  him.  He  had  played  for  and  won  sympathy  where 
scorn  had  been  promised.  Verily,  he  was  master  in  his 
own  domain ! 

He  did  not  wait  for  Beatrice  Gray  to  read  the  word 
from  Kate  O'Brien,  but  took  the  message  from  her  un 
resisting  hand.  They  watched  him  as  he  read;  they 
saw  the  honest  look  of  pain  and  despair  steal  into  his 
face;  they  saw  his  lips  tremble  and  the  tears  rush  to  his 


:v 


10. 

f&- 


[106] 

eyes.  With  a  piteous  gesture  to  indicate  his  powerless- 
ness  to  speak,  he  turned  and  walked  slowly  toward  a 
bench  beneath  the  trees.  Then,  completely  overcome 
by  their  emotions,  the  two  girls  hastened  to  the  house 
with  their  blighting  news.  They  could  not  find  the  cour 
age  to  offer  consolation  in  the  face  of  that  silent,  manly 
exhibition  of  grief. 

Later  on,  he  started  for  the  city,  crushed  and  shaken, 
completely  overwhelmed  by  the  sorrow  that  had  fallen 
upon  him.  George  Pennington  would  have  accompanied 
him,  but  he  declined  the  proffer  of  company.  He  wanted 
to  be  alone.  Something  had  told  him  that  Pennington, 
as  well  as  the  others,  had  seen  into  his  soul  and  in  secret 
despised  him ;  he  felt  sure  that  every  one  knew  intuitively 
that  he  had  come  away  from  home  with  the  full  knowl 
edge  that  his  mother  was  on  her  death-bed. 

What  he  did  not  know,  though  he  may  have  feared  it 
as  a  possibility,  was  the  cruel  fact  that  young  Gately 
had  seen  the  telegram  delivered  to  him  the  night  before ! 

He  was  barely  out  of  the  grounds  on  his  way  to  the 
station  before  every  one  in  the  party  was  in  possession 
of  Gately's  news.  And  then  it  was  that  Sedgewick  Blynn 
was  forever  damned  in  the  hearts  of  his  friends.  No 
word  was  too  bitter  in  the  storm  of  denunciation  that 
followed.  When  he  left  the  gates  below  it  was  to  step 
out  of  the  life  he  had  loved,  never  to  find  his  way  back 
into  it  again. 

He  went  down  into  the  city  that  sunny  day  wrapped 
in  the  blackest  mantle  that  shame  and  self-pity  could 

rni- 
,tvs% 


nf 

Y  1 


produce.  As  well  as  if  it  had  been  printed  in  letters  a 
mile  high,  he  saw  the  verdict  that  had  been  rendered 
against  him.  The  world  knew  and  it  would  not  forgive ! 

Bleak  and  desolate,  he  watched  the  mileposts  speed 
by,  a  thousand  bitter  thoughts  accumulating  in  his  brain, 
the  most  insistent  of  which  was  the  outraged  feeling  that 
his  mother  had  done  him  a  great  and  unbelievable 
wrong  by  dying  while  he  was  away !  She  had  no  right 
to  bring  this  down  upon  him  !  It  was  cruel,  unbelievably 
cruel !  What  had  he  done  to  deserve  this  cruel  blow 
from  one  he  had  loved  and  stood  by  through  all  his 
struggling  years ! 

The  world  and  all  that  therein  was  had  turned  against 
him  —  even  to  the  dead  woman  who  lay  there  in  his 
home,  a  thing  to  cast  mockery  and  obloquy  upon  him 
even  to  the  edge  of  the  grave ! 

A  woman  with  a  small,  curiously  inclined  child  —  a 
girl  of  four  —  sat  in  the  seat  ahead  of  him.  For  miles 
the  little  one  looked  in  silent  wonder  upon  the  face  of 
this  sombre,  haggard  man  behind,  peering  over  the 
back  of  the  seat  into  his  unseeing  eyes.  She  would  have 
liked  to  be  friendly.  The  woman's  instinct  in  her  little 
breast  told  her  that  this  man  needed  kind  words  and 
sympathy.  At  last,  her  piping,  timid  little  voice  broke 
through  the  reserve  of  miles.  He  heard  her  words  and 
replied,  dully,  almost  harshly. 

She  said,  with  childish  ingenuousness : 

"I'm  just  gettin'  over  the  chicken-pox."  It  was  the 
best  that  she  could  do. 


Nrff-J 

*{fy\ 


*?7 


[io8] 

He  replied,  without  knowing  what  he  said:  "Did  you 
enjoy  it?"  The  harsh  twang  in  his  voice  silenced  the 
child;  she  shrank  back  and  gave  up  the  effort  to  befriend 
him.  But  she  still  studied  his  face  with  wondering  eyes. 

As  the  train  neared  the  city,  he  found  himself  suddenly 
entertaining  a  wish  that  he  might  die  at  once  and  end  it 
all !  If  he  could  but  die  then  and  there  he  would  not 
have  to  look  upon  the  dead  face  of  his  mother;  he  could 
escape  the  smile  of  love  and  longing  that  must  have  gone 
out  with  her  at  the  last  —  the  sweet,  trusting  smile  that 
had  tried  to  wait  for  him  to  come  back  to  it  before  it  was 
stilled  in  death.  Suicide!  He  could  end  it  all  in  a 
moment's  time !  A  fall  between  the  rushing  cars !  No ! 
No!  He  shrank  back  from  his  thoughts  in  a  terror  so 
great  that  the  child  ahead  turned  to  cling  to  her  mother 
in  dire  affright.  Then  he  smiled  wanly  upon  his  little, 
would-be  friend. 

The  terror  had  passed;   life  was  too  sweet,  after  all. 

A  satirical  smile  deepened  in  his  face.  He  was  think 
ing  now  of  Mary  Colbert's  husband,  who  had  com 
mitted  suicide.  Colbert  had  been  a  polite  man  and 
punctilious.  The  day  that  he  shot  himself,  he  calmly 
wrote  a  letter  of  apology  to  Mrs.  Trend,  with  whom  he 
and  his  wife  were  to  dine  that  night.  Sedgewick  recalled 
the  historic  words  of  that  grim  epistle.  He  wondered  if 
he  could  have  done  it.  Colbert  had  written  to  say  that 

xbsP  . 

his  "own  unfortunate  death  would  prevent  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Colbert  from  accepting  Mrs.  Trend's  kind  invitation  to 
dinner,  after  all.  Trusting  that  Mrs.  Trend  would  not 

J/7S! 

3s»  v& 


>  <!fs¥ 


^2S*^oi&-*^ 
iog] 

be  greatly  inconvenienced  by  the  lateness  of  this  with 
drawal,"  etc.  Then  he  coolly  shot  himself.  But  every 
body  in  town  marvelled  at  the  grim  humour  which  must 
have  been  his  to  the  last. 

And  so  Sedgewick  came  back  to  the  house  in  Lombard 
Avenue,  and  saw  the  smile  on  his  dead  mother's  lips, 
and  wondered  how  it  was  that  she  could  have  been  so 
cruel  as  to  die  without  saying  good-bye  to  him  and  kissing 
him  before  she  went ! 


S 


CHAPTER  VII 

CONTEMPLATING   THE    CHRYSALIS 

EDGEWICK  BLYNN  went  into  the  deepest, 
most  consistent  mourning  for  his  mother.  His 
sisters,  forgiving  him  at  the  crucial  moment  in 
their  joint  misery,  were  surprised  by  the  steadfastness 
which  characterised  his  professed  rejection  of  all  things 
worldly.  They  could  hardly  believe  that  this  sober  stay- 
at-home  was  the  same  youth  who  had  gone  whirling  with 
the  world  of  pleasure  a  few  short  months  before.  For 
months  after  his  mother's  death  he  was  never  away  from 
home  at  night,  nor  would  he  have  anything  to  do  with 
the  world  which  had  known  him  so  long  and  so  well. 
He  had  calmly  announced  in  the  beginning  that  he  could 
not  make  room  in  his  heart  for  the  tender  memory  of  a 
mother  and  thoughts  of  the  callous,  sordid  world  as  he 
had  come  to  know  it. 

He  gave  them  to  understand  that  he  intended  to  cut 
himself  off  from  his  old,  heartless  associates,  whether 
they  liked  it  or  not.  But  his  sisters  never  were  to  know 
of  the  bitterness  that  filled  his  heart  as  he  looked  the  real 
situation  in  the  face.  His  world  had  renounced  him  !  It 
gave  him  plainly  to  understand  in  a  thousand  little  ways, 


<n 
[in] 

by  a  hundred  poignant  snubs,  that  it  was  through  with 
him.  He  had  run  his  course.  But  he  firmly,  resolutely 
faced  it  all  with  a  splendid  foil  —  pitiful,  abject  grief 
over  the  loss  of  his  mother.  Those  who  came  in  contact 
with  him  seldom  failed  to  speak,  in  subdued  tones,  of 
the  remarkable  and  at  the  same  time  irreproachable 
grief  which  had  altered  him  so  completely. 

He  eschewed  every  form  of  social  pleasure;  he  re 
signed  from  his  clubs;  he  ate  in  obscure  cafes ;  he  seemed 
to  be  utterly  overwhelmed  by  his  bereavement.  Certain 
friends  of  the  old  days,  callow  chaps  who  could  have 
forgiven  his  verbally  published  shortcomings  for  the 
sufficient  reason  that  they  did  not  have  brains  enough  to 
retain  so  much,  undertook  a  movement  to  re-establish 
him  among  those  who  had  politely  but  effectually  for 
gotten  him.  The  movement  failed.  Grief,  however 
picturesque  and  glorified,  is  not  the  sesame  which  opens 
the  way  to  the  treasures  of  society. 

For  weeks  after  the  funeral  the  city,  or  rather  that 
portion  of  the  city  which  inhabits  the  society  columns  by 
day  and  its  own  secret  fastnesses  by  night,  throbbed  with 
requiems  for  Sedgewick  Blynn.  Tales  concerning  him 
spread  like  wildfire.  He  became  the  most  execrated  man 
in  town  —  a  social  pariah.  His  world  had  found  him 
out,  and  after  all  his  world  was  one  that  sets  a  certain 
standard  for  the  dwellers  therein.  He  had  dropped 
below  that  standard. 

After  the  first  shock  of  realisation  had  been  lessened 
by  time  and  calculation,  Blynn  permitted  his  hopes  and 


.  1 


[112] 

his  spirits  to  venture  forth  on  an  expedition  of  inquiry. 
He  searched  eagerly,  feverishly,  for  the  first  faint  signs 
of  friendliness  among  those  who  had  cast  him  off.  Both 
his  hopes  and  his  spirits  were  soon  drenched  by  the 
chill  damp  of  a  no  uncertain  aversion.  No  one  gave 
him  greeting,  no  one  offered  a  hand  by  which  he  might 
lift  himself  above  the  quicksands  into  which  he  had 

^"^  '•      j^~^  i*~  ~      '•*  ^tV 

blindly  wandered.  They  were  quite  content  to  see  him 
sink  out  of  sight,  as  if  he  had  never  been  there  at  all. 

At  first  he  could  not  fully  appreciate  the  extent  of  his 
fall  from  grace.  Not  until  his  former  friends  and  advo 
cates  deliberately  passed  him  by  with  not  so  much  as  a 
nod  of  recognition  was  he  able  to  grasp  the  bitter  truth. 
Women  to  whom  he  had  played  knight-errant,  for  whom 
he  had  run  the  errands  in  the  race  for  favour,  now  cut  him 
dead  in  public  places.  A  dozen  times  had  he  started  to 
lift  his  hat  to  these  erstwhile  friends,  only  to  have  them 
turn  away  from  him  with  unmistakable  repulsion  in  their 
manner. 

He  was  stunned  at  first,  then  ugly  and  resentful.     To 

to  J 

himself  he  said,  a  thousand  times  over,  that  he  could  tell 
the  world  something  about  these  very  dames  that  would 
cause  it  to  sit  up  and  gasp.  He  knew  them  well,  or,  at 
Least,  so  he  tried  to  convince  himself.  And  yet,  after 
all,  he  was  constrained  to  sink  back  powerless  and  impo 
tent  in  the  remembrance  that  he  merely  had  played  the 
same  game  with  them,  and  that  it  was  a  harmless,  innocu 
ous  game  after  all  —  the  game  called  Experience.  It 
was  a  gay,  a  somewhat  boisterous  game  when  one  came 


l^^^M^M^' 

-^<S?         _       o 

[113] 

to  understand  its  crudities;  the  outside  world  never  got 
beyond  coveting  its  delicate  possibilities.  The  outside 
world  is  vulgar.  At  least,  so  Sedgewick  Blynn  had  always 
argued.  Now  he  considered  it  worse  than  vulgar:  it 
was  stupid ! 

It  is  charitable  to  say  that  he  did  not  mistake  the  kind 
ness  of  certain  old  friends  at  the  time  of  the  funeral. 
George  Pennington  had  served  as  one  of  the  bearers  and 
so  had  James  Carnahan.  Many  people  in  the  upper  world 
slyly  had  sent  flowers  to  the  house  in  Lombard  Avenue. 
It  was  their  final  and  secret  tribute  to  the  memory  of 
Sedgewick  Blynn,  not  a  tribute  to  his  mother  by  any 
manner  of  means. 

The  sisters  of  Sedgewick  Blynn  were  touched  by 
these  beautiful  testimonials  from  the  world  to  which 
he,  not  they,  belonged. 

Kate  O'Brien  was  as  deeply  impressed;  her  opinion 
of  the  smart  set  changed  considerably  at  that  time. 
After  all,  its  people  were  not  such  narrow,  selfish  crea 
tures  as  she  had  come  to  believe  them  by  contact.  She 
could  not  understand  why  they  had  sent  flowers  to  the 
bier  of  humble  Mrs.  Blynn,  unless  it  was  that  in  their 
hearts  there  was  a  warmer  spring  than  her  own  dealings 
with  them  had  led  her  to  believe  they  possessed.  She 
had  been  permitted  to  view  them  at  rather  close  range, 
too,  from  her  particular  walk  in  life,  it  may  be  believed. 

Shunned  by  the  people  he  had  served  with  almost 
servile,  obliging  earnestness,  Sedgewick  Blynn,  as  we 
have  said  before,  shrank  back  beaten  and  cowed  into 

'*L.    * 


["4] 

the  obscurity  of  a  convenient  grief.  The  world  should 
never  know,  by  any  sign  from  him,  how  the  other  thing 
was  biting  into  his  soul.  It  was  enough  that  he  was 
bereaved,  and  it  was  more  than  enough  that  he  had 
decided,  once  and  for  all,  to  abandon  the  useless,  vacuous 
life  of  fashion  for  the  steady,  toilsome  existence  of  a  real 
spinner. 

He  got  it  all  very  straight  from  Mrs.  Trend  one  day. 
Determined  to  learn  precisely  how  he  stood  with  that 
excellent  leader,  he  accosted  her  in  front  of  Swan's. 
Without  waiting  for  an  invitation,  he  stepped  into  the 
victoria  beside  her,  and  ruthlessly  implored  her  to  set 
him  straight  with  the  world.  She  eyed  him  coldly,  almost 
admiringly.  His  confidence,  his  ingenuousness  was 
sublime.  But  he  was  beyond  the  pale.  She  could  not 
take  him  up  again.  Even  her  exalted  position  would 
not  be  proof  against  the  tempest  of  indignation  that  would 
follow  the  effort.  She  was  compelled  to  speak  plainly 
and  without  mercy. 

"You  ask  why  people  cut  you,  why  they  do  not  invite 
you  to  their  homes,  why  you  have  been  obliged  to  resign 
from  the  clubs.  Why  should  you  ask,  Mr.  Blynn  ?  The 
reason  is  even  plainer  to  you  than  to  any  one  else.  I  '11 
be  quite  frank  with  you.  I  think  it  is  best  that  you  should 
understand  clearly  that  there  is  no  chance  for  you  to 
ever  regain  the  smallest  foothold  in  society,  or  such  of  it 
as  you  have  known.  You  were  one  of  the  chosen  young 
men.  You  could  have  lived  to  the  end  of  your  days 
among  the  elect,  if  you  had  shown  yourself  worthy.  You 


i 


opyright,  iyiu,  Doild,  Mead  &  Co. 


"She  was  compelled  to  speak  plainly  and  without  mercy" 


["5] 

amused  people,  and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal  in  these 
days.  But  you  also  abused  them,  which  is  more  to  the 
point.  To  be  perfectly  plain,  every  one  has  come  to  regard 
you  —  not  as  a  cad  —  but  as  a  man  who  never  rightfully 
belonged.  No  one  can  ever  forget  that  you  played  your 
mother  false.  If  you  would  do  that,  you  would  play  the 
rest  of  us  false.  You  knew  that  she  was  dying  when  you 
—  no,  you  must  listen  to  me !  when  you  left  her  bedside 
that  day.  But  you  could  not  forego  your  own  selfish 
pleasure,  even  for  that.  You  squandered  her  little  fortune. 
You  inveigled  a  devoted  though  foolish  friend  into  bad 
speculations  and  you  profited  by  his  losses.  You  trifled 
with  two  young  girls  —  more,  perhaps  —  and  you  would 
have  eloped  with  one  of  them.  You  see  we  know  it  all ! 
It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  we  never  took  you 
seriously.  We  are  not  so  blind  as  all  that.  You  were  a 
splendid  ornament,  a  purchasable  commodity.  We  did 
not  know  it  then,  but  now  we  are  quite  sure  that  we  bought 
you  with  kind  words  away  from  the  mother  who  loved 
you.  It  was  a  bad  trade,  Mr.  Blynn.  We  meant  nothing, 
she  was  everything.  You  became  a  butterfly;  you 
snapped  your  shell  and  flew  up  among  us.  We  admire 
butterflies  but  we  don't  pin  much  faith  to  them.  Now  you 
ask  why  I  do  not  ask  you  to  my  house,  quietly,  you  say, 
for  you  are  in  mourning.  I  '11  answer  that  rather  brutally, 
Mr.  Blynn,  by  asking  you  in  return :  for  what,  not  whom, 
are  you  in  mourning?" 

He  looked  hard  into  her  cold,  uncompromising  eyes 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  short  "Good-bye,"  whicn 


[ii6] 

was  in  reality  his  farewell  to  the  world  over  which  she 
was  queen,  deliberately  stepped  out  of  the  victoria 
and  went  his  bitter  way. 

And  so  he  went  down  into  his  oblivion  with  a  surly 
heart  and  in  bitter  spirit.  He  turned  to  his  sisters  and 
to  Kate  O'Brien,  and  to  the  humble,  unworldly  people 
of  Lombard  Avenue.  To  them  he  gravely  descanted 
upon  the  evils  of  society  and  forswore  it  to  their  faces 
with  such  convincing  vehemence  that  they  believed  him 
to  be  a  brand  rescued  from  the  burning. 

And  they  delighted  in  listening  to  his  vainglorious  tales 
of  the  upper  world;  he  could  open  the  secret  recesses  to 
their  wondering  gaze,  and  they  could  see  to  the  very 
heart  of  the  thing  that  he  called  Rottenness ! 

Pennington  had  gone  out  of  his  life  without  a  word 
to  cheer  or  encourage.  He  took  himself  off  to  Paris; 
it  was  said  by  his  friends  that  he  fled  because  he  was 
afraid  to  run  the  risk  of  propinquity ! 

Lombard  Avenue  discovered  one  day,  to  its  surprise, 
and  we  might  say  mortification,  that  Sedgewick  Blynn 
and  Kate  O'Brien  were  to  be  married.  Lombard  Avenue 
could  not  understand  how  it  was  that  Sedgewick  Blynn 
could  descend  to  its  level  in  a  matter  of  this  kind;  it 
had  always  believed  that  he  was  cut  out  to  be  husband 
to  nothing  less  than  the  daughter  of  a  banker,  or  perhaps 
even  the  more  ostentatious  production  of  a  millionaire 
milliner. 

Moreover,  the  Avenue  was  disturbed  to  learn  that  he 
had  given  Up  his  office  in  the  Street  and  was  considering 


a  proposition  to  become  city  salesman  for  an  automobile 
concern,  with  hope  beyond.  His  sisters,  apparently  in 
a  mood  to  seek  surcease  from  grief  and  desolation,  had 
long  since  continued  to  find  it,  in  a  measure,  by  working 
all  day  long  in  the  office  of  the  County  Recorder.  The 
Avenue  was  very  slow  to  see  things. 

Kate  O'Brien  loved  Sedgewick,  but  she  was  not  so 
dense  as  to  overlook  his  faults,  even  though  she  loved 
him  blindly.  She  realised  better  than  any  one  else  just 
what  sort  of  a  man  he  had  been  and  what  she  would 
have  to  contend  with.  Somehow  she  had  a  feeling  that, 
in  time,  she  could  refurbish  him  and  teach  him  to  live 
"according  to  his  lights."  He  cared  for  her  in  a  way; 
he  cared  as  a  beaten  dog  cares  for  the  one  whose  hand 
is  gentle  and  whose  voice  is  soft.  She  had  been  his  friend 
through  all  the  years  and  she  had  not  denied  him  by 
look  or  word.  He  caught  himself  dreaming  of  the  future; 
he  might  be  able  to  raise  her  to  a  social  level  equal  to 
that  of  the  dyspepsia-tablet  maker's  wife,  who  was,  :n  a 
way,  one  of  the  recognised  forces  in  society,  although  it 
was  quite  out  of  place  for  one  to  speak  of  the  digestion 
in  her  presence.  Perhaps,  as  he  went  upward  in  the  auto 
mobile  business  —  or,  more  likely,  the  flying  machine 
industry  —  he  might  hope  to  polish  her  into  a  social  bril 
liance  such  as  even  the  wife  of  the  omnibus  company's 
president  could  not  surpass  nor  the  great-granddaughter 
of  a  Plymouth  Rock  merchant  deny. 

Kate  was  clever  enough;  all  she  lacked  was  the  tone 
that  he  could  give  to  her. 


f^f~    //V 


fcv 


" 


•'•  s  ?' 

1© 


m  K 


[118] 

Occasionally  he  took  her  to  the  play  or  to  the  vaude 
ville.  In  return  she  had  him  to  lunch  at  the  Italian 
restaurant  in  Bothwerk  Street  or  took  him  to  church 
of  a  Sunday  morning. 

One  night,  just  a  week  before  the  wedding,  she  tim 
idly  —  for  she  was  still  in  some  awe  of  his  past  prowess 
—  broached  a  subject  that  had  long  been  in  her  mind 
to  discuss  with  him,  plainly  and  decisively.  They  had 
just  returned  to  her  home  after  having  witnessed  a 
comedy  in  one  of  the  theatres.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
more  than  a  year  that  he  had  been  inside  this  play 
house,  where  on  innumerable  occasions  he  had  sat  with 
gay  box  parties  as  one  of  the  fortunate  few  at  whom  all 
people  stared.  This  night  he  sat  beside  pretty  Kate 
O'Brien,  head  of  the  dressmaking  department,  in  a  seat 
not  far  removed  from  the  stage,  his  face  set  and  his 
eyes  glued  to  the  drop  curtain  or  the  open  stage,  as 
the  changes  came.  Around  about  them  sat  dozens  of 
people  whom  he  knew.  He  was  afraid  to  look  at  them. 
Kate  observed  this;  it  was  the  thing  that  she  was  bring 
ing  herself  to  discuss  with  him. 

"Look  here,  Sedge,  were  you  ashamed  to  be  seen 
with  me  to-night  ?"  she  found  the  courage  to  demand  at 
last.  She  was  taking  her  hat  off  in  the  parlour. 

He  came  out  of  his  reverie.  "Ashamed?  What  do 
you  mean,  Kate  ?" 

"All  of  your  fine  friends  were  there.  They  did  n't 
seem  to  see  you,  and  I  noticed  that  you  were  n't  rubber^ 
jng  very  much  in  their  direction.  That 's  why  I  a.sk?d 


f 


% 


if  you  were  —  well,  were  you  afraid  they  would  n't  speak 
to  you  if  they  saw  you  sitting  there  with  me  ?  I  'm  only 
a  working  girl,  you  know.  It  —  " 

He  patted  her  hand  reassuringly,  even  condescend 
ingly.  "Nonsense,"  he  said.  "You  know  better  than 
that.  Am  I  not  a  working  man  these  days  ?  Have  n't 
I  cut  it  all  out  ?  Ashamed  of  you,  Kate  ?  I  should 
say  not.  You  're  worth  all  of  'em  put  together." 

"I  don't  like  your  tone,  Sedge.  I  'm  not  a  child,  you 
know.  I  can  see  a  thing  or  two.  Why  did  n't  Mrs. 
Osgood  and  Miss  Perrin  and  Mrs.  Ostertag  speak  to 
you  ?  They  looked  right  at  you  and  —  and,  well,  they 
turned  away.  I  saw  them  do  it.  Look  here,  Sedge, 
am  I  going  to  be  the  cause  of  your  old  friends  never 
speaking  to  you  ?  Are  they  always  going  to  cut  you 
when  they  see  us  together  ?  If  that 's  so  I  '11  give  up  — 

"They  sha'n't  cut  me,  damn  'em,"  he  cried  viciously. 
"I  won't  let  them.  I  '11  make  them  sit  up  and  take  no 
tice;  just  you  watch  me."  Then  catching  himself  up, 
he  swiftly  returned  to  his  attitude  of  tolerance.  "Never 
mind,  Kate,  if  what  you  think  should  be  true,  it  can't 
make  any  difference.  They  can't  change  me,  not  by  a 
long  shot.  You  're  good  enough  for  me,  so  there  's  the 
end  of  it." 

"But  will  you  always  think  that  way?"  she  insisted, 
almost   pleadingly.     "Won't  you   feel   it   after  a  while 
when  they  —  when  they  keep  on  failing  to  see  you  — 
when  you  're  with  me  ?     And,  more  than  that,   pretty 
soon  they  '11  quit  seeing  you  when  you  're  not  with  me. 


<n 


Oh,  I  know !  I  know  that  a  man  can't  be  on  the  fence 
with  these  people.  He  's  got  to  get  down  on  one  side 
or  the  other.  If  he  gets  down  on  the  side  they  don't 
care  about,  he  's  out  of  it  forever,  so  far  as  they  are 
concerned." 

"Haven't  I  told  you  a  hundred  times  that  I  don't 
give  a  damn  what  they  think  ?"  he  cried  irascibly.  "I  've 
got  down  on  your  side  of  the  fence,  so  what 's  the  row, 
dear  ?  I  knew  what  I  was  doing.  I  wanted  you,  and 
I  want  to  live  quietly  and  happily,  not  in  that  awful 
roar  I  've  been  used  to.  I  've  told  —  er  —  a  dozen 
women  that  I  'm  going  to  marry  you." 

"You  have,  dear?  What  did  they  say?"  with  eager 
curiosity. 

"Say?  What  could  they  say?"  he  stammered,  real 
ising  that  he  had  lied  to  some  disadvantage. 

"I'll  bet  they  laughed  at  you  and  turned  up  their 
noses,"  she  said,  her  cheeks  flaming. 

"Now,  let 's  talk  about  something  else,"  he  exclaimed, 
palpably  evasive.  He  was  mean  enough  to  let  it  stand 
that  she  should  know,  then  and  there,  that  he  was  sacri 
ficing  his  whole  social  career  for  her. 

"But  I'm  thinking  of  you,  Sedgewick,  dear,"  she 
'cried  earnestly.  "Think  now,  before  it  is  too  late. 
They  won't  speak  to  me,  except  in  the  shop.  You  '11 
be  cutting  yourself  off  altogether  —  " 

"My  dear,  that 's  what  they  've  all  told  me,"  he  said, 
with  fine  defiance  in  his  eyes.  He  arose  and  put  his 
arm  about  her  shoulders. 


[121] 

"They  —  have  ?"  she  faltered. 

His  eyes  flashed.  "Yes.  They  said  I  'd  be  ruining 
my  career  and  all  that.  I  '11  be  perfectly  frank  with 
you,  Kate.  That 's  what  they  said.  They  begged  me 
to  give  it  all  up  and  —  er  —  and  come  back  into  the 
old  playground,  but  —  now  I  want  you  to  believe  this 
forever  more  —  I  politely  told  'em  that  I  cared  more  for 
your  little  finger  than  I  did  for  the  whole  darned  universe." 

She  was  crying  on  his  shoulder.  It  inspired  him  to 
more  heroic  utterances.  He  added  vehemently:  "And 
that 's  no  lie,  either!" 

After  the  marriage,  a  week  later,  the  happy  bride 
looked  slyly  but  in  vain  through  the  society  columns 
of  the  daily  press  for  notices  of  the  wedding. 


THE   END 


«t^-— < 


si  S3  mi 


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